


Elastic Heart

by mia_ugly



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Canon Related, Cookies, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, non-au, too many song lyrics, too much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-01-23 15:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18552145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/pseuds/mia_ugly
Summary: Drag Race and everything that came after (or Brooke Lynn Hytes falls stupidly, clumsily, unspeakably in love on national goddamn television.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first and only foray into RPS, my first time ever writing in this fandom, and I want to reinforce that this story is only BASED off of these lovely individuals, and not in any way meant to represent their real personalities or choices. If you are uncomfortable with this, please do not read.
> 
> Pronouns: I'm using she/her when they are on Drag Race, and he/him when out of drag, back in the real world. 
> 
> I'm mia-ugly on tumblr where I stan Katya and Alan Rickman. It's complicated.

 

 

The thing is, Brooke doesn’t fall in love.

She doesn’t fall in love and she doesn’t do relationships.  She did, of course, when she was young and fueled only by nicotine and ballet and andrenaline – had the seemingly endless stamina for sex and heartbreak that only the young possess.  Took it for granted of course.  As the young do.

These days, Brooke doesn’t fall in love.  Not easily, not anymore. After so many disasters you become a bit jaded, a bit guarded.  Your heart - which used to be so bendable, so resilient - becomes a bit more brittle.  Difficult to put back together when it shatters. And once Drag Race even started looking like a possibility, Brooke didn’t give relationships a thought.  She had other things on her mind; she could see a crown and taste that money, paper soft and bitter between her teeth. She’s always been focused, driven, but now she’s a force of nature.  Detox even says so, shows the most concern she’s ever likely to show when she suggests Brooke “take the night off, for once.”

But Brooke never does.  And she doesn’t fall in love. 

She definitely doesn’t fall in love on the set of a reality television competition, with 100,000 doe-lahs on the line. That would be insanity.  That would be – just about the worst thing she could ever do. After all the late nights sewing, the clumsy grind on social media, the rehab after her knee injury and the handfuls of Tylenol when her joints are screaming too much to sleep – falling for a competitor wouldn’t just be stupid, it would be debilitating. And Brooke has had those kind of injuries before, she knows how they feel.  She knows how you can land just a bit off balance, or feel your ankle twist as you pirouette.  The moment before the pain is almost worse than the pain itself - the hot slow rush that comes before the injury, the poisonous certainty you’re going to fall.  Your body is utterly out of control for a second that stretches out like an hour, and all you can do is pray that the damage is minimal.

On the first day of shooting, Brooke looks across the werkroom at Miss Vanessa Vanjie Mateo, and feels the uncanny sensation of her ankle rolling underneath her.  Even though she’s standing still.  She shakes off the sensation, shakes off the unconscious feeling that she’s holding her breath and waiting for the inevitable injury.

It doesn’t really come until the night of the Orange Alert runway, Rusical thankfully over and done with (she’d been nervous about that one, especially after the Black Panther challenge.) Brooke's feeling the high that comes with success, with gratitude that Vanessa didn’t have to lipsynch but Brooke still got to kiss her. Brooke's feeling _herself_ (if she’s being honest) in her _Fifth Element_ bondage look, and Vanessa looks incandescent in all those orange feathers (Brooke wants to lick her all over, from the arches of her feet to the nape of her neck. Brooke wants to strip the glitter off her with her tongue.)

They’re back in the werkroom, sprawled on the sofa, where A’Keria has to ask the damn question that they managed to avoid backstage: “I’ve been noticing a lot of chemistry between you and Brooke Lynn. What exactly is going on?”

Brooke’s heart does a dumb little stutter in her throat, but she keeps a smile on her face.  Keeps it light, keeps it playful.  Anything else would be unbearable. _Debilitating_.

“Brooke Lynn’s a good friend of mine,” Vanjie says, fluttering her black eyelashes, looking like a phoenix about to rise.  “A really good friend.”

And Brooke laughs a bit too loud, tilting her head back, and thinking ' _there it is_.' 

Labral tear of the hip. 

Tibial stress fracture. 

The pain she knew was coming.

* * *

_(Now.)_

Out of drag, Brock feels smaller. Vulnerable, like he’s taken off his armour.

He knows he’s still a giant Canadian, but without Brooke’s stilettos and hip-pads he almost feels fragile.  Maybe _fragile_ isn’t the right word, maybe it’s - _ordinary._   He goes jogging along Cumberland River and no one notices him. He wears grey sweatpants and Tragically Hip t-shirts like camouflage and blends into whatever setting he’s in. He’s like wallpaper sometimes. People look right past him.

No one looks past Brooke Lynn.  They wouldn’t dare.

Not that he can’t turn a look when he wants to. When his friends drag him out to a club, he can usually find someone who isn’t too intimidated to pick him up, take him home.  He likes being anonymous sometimes (that probably sounds ungrateful, and God help him he never wants this ride to end, but he doesn’t always have the energy to be Brooke Lynn. Especially on his nights off.) 

Back in Nashville he texts Nina every time a new episode drops.  He forces himself to watch each one in public, in a crowded bar or group of noisy friends, sometimes he even hosts the damn watch-party.  At least with people on all sides of him (arms around him, buying him shots, hands on his back) he can’t fuck off without reason.  Can’t run out into the streets or scream without someone coming after him, making sure he’s okay.  So it’s better to do the watch-party thing.  Safer, at least.

“Your fucking face,” he texts Nina during the Monster’s Ball episode.  On the flat-screen above the bar, Nina’s just taken off her mask and is grinning horrifically at the camera.

“Your fucking mom,” Nina texts back.  Class act, that one.

“Tell me you aren’t actually selling Branjie hats,” she adds a few seconds later. 

Brock shuts his eyes, swallows. His hands don’t shake as he texts back.

“4 charity u want 1?” 

Nina sends him a series of emojis that are just indecipherable enough to be insulting.  And maybe the hats were a cynical move but the proceeds really are going to charity.  It was all Brock’s agent’s idea, and they ran it by Vanessa of course but - the worst part is that Brock’s actually getting some fucked-up kind of relief from it.  From the people online who think the whole sad story was a publicity stunt.  It’s like, fine, that’s all it was, here’s a fucking hat.  You wanna buy a piece of our relationship? We accept Paypal. 

It’s easier to think about it this way, then - the other way. His hand on Vanessa’s chest, heartbeat singing warm and low beneath Brock’s palm.  That harsh, rowdy laugh across the werkroom, making Brock laugh in return no matter what he was doing, and then blush with embarrassment.

(“I’m your jush, hey?”Lips close to Vanjie’s ear, arms draped over her shoulders.

“Aw, bitch, what you want me to say?” Vanessa’s focused on her sewing, but she still gives a cautious glance upwards, smiling with the corners of her mouth. “You need a ring or some shit?”)

That line becomes a bit of a joke between them, though it hasn’t shown up in the episodes yet - and if there’s any justice in the universe it never will.

(“You need a ring or some shit?” after Vanjie wins a mini-challenge, reaching out for a hand to hold.

“You need a ring or some shit?” after Vanjie’s safe from elimination and throws her arms around Brooke as soon as they’re off-stage, away from the judges and the harsh white lights, smelling like sweat and hairspray and baby powder and -)

_Stop._

If Brock ever hears that question edited dramatically into a confessional, he might break a television with his knuckles.  

At the very least, throw a high-heel.

“Are you okay?” Nina texts, too high-achieving for slang or abbreviations.  She even uses punctuation like some sort of monster.

Brock puts his phone down, lets the drama play out on screen for once. Nina doesn’t need a response to the question.  Girl already knows the answer.

* * *

( _Then.)_

The first time they kiss, the cameras are not on them. 

Brooke wouldn’t have done that, wouldn’t have wanted to make it something sensational.  She knows there’s a limit to how cuddly they can be before the editors start building a story out of it, putting pieces together that will inevitably lead to some awful climax and a lot of think-pieces on Vulture. It’s best to keep - whatever it is behind Vanjie’s dark eyes - under wraps.

They’ve been trading glances across the werkroom but Brooke tells herself it doesn’t mean anything special. Vanjie is a legend, a rock star, and even though Brooke slays the first runway challenge (all hail Detox, Patron Saint of Latex, hallowed be Thy name) it doesn’t make her think she’s earned any extra notice from the other queens. Maybe a couple of shady glances here and there, but that’s to be expected.

And if she looks a bit too long at Vanessa Vanjie Mateo (all wrapped up in red silk, the sticky-sweet colour of maraschino cherries and candied apples) no one’s going to notice.  Vanjie’s fine as hell in and out of drag; you’d have to be blind not to stare at her.  

Brooke’s clearly only fooling herself because that first night (the fucking first night!) A’Keria slides up beside Brooke in line for craft services, pursing her lips.

“Oooh girl, you be careful.” 

“Why?” Brooke grabs some salad before it runs out. Fuck knows the P.A.s won’t order more of it. 

“Play innocent all you like, but I see you lookin’. Don’t be stupid, now.” A’Keria is too smart for her own good, and too damn cool to be chatting with Brooke over paper plates full of iceberg lettuce. “Any of those producers catch you, they’re gonna be all over it, know what I’m sayin’?”

“I don’t,” Brooke Lynn says, and A’Keria rolls her eyes. 

But Brooke knew.  And she really should have listened.

It’s after the “What’s Your Sign” runway (which Vanjie stomps like she owns it, dripping with red roses and a goddamn Libra, _Jesus Christ_ \- Brooke’s _so_ predictable.) 

She takes off her paint and sneaks outside for a smoke break before the producers come to round them all up, pack ‘em into the van back to the hotel.  No one follows her.  The cameras usually leave a queen alone if she’s by herself (not enough drama to waste the film) and Brooke hurries to take advantage of that fact. 

The smoking area is just a nasty little square of pavement with a couple of chairs and an ashtray, but it’s quiet and Brooke can almost see the stars.  For a few moments she’s completely alone and after the chaos of shooting for sixteen hours – it’s nice.  Nice to not have to be “on.” Nice to just be.

And then the door creaks as it opens, and out walks Vanjie.  Back in boy clothes, but still a bit glittery.

“Hello, hello, hello Miss Brooke Lynn.”

Brooke exhales a laugh that tastes like ashes. “You don’t smoke.”

“Nah.” Vanjie sits down on a chair across from her. “But those girls take forever, I’m growing old watching them. Look, baby, I got wrinkles.” She turns her head from side to side, gesturing to (non-existent) lines at the corners of her eyes. 

Brooke wants to tell her she looks perfect, flawless, untouchable.  But she doesn’t. Instead she sucks on her cigarette, tells herself to be cool (for once.) “You were so good in the challenge. It was amazing.”

“ _I’m not a regular dad, I’m a cool dad._ ” Vanjie tugs at the shoulder of her hoodie with that low, rasping laugh of hers. “You weren’t so bad neither.”

Brooke shakes her head, old enough to know bullshit when she hears it. “Don’t even.  That voice - that whole character was a mistake.”

“Haha, well.  It was a _choice_ , bitch, a choice. Good thing you turned it out on the runway.” Vanjie tilts her head back, looking up into the dark. “Hey, I can almost see stars. That’s a star, right?”

Brooke follows Vanjie’s pointing hand, but can’t make anything out besides smog.  She closes her eyes instead of looking at her any longer (sometimes looking at Vanessa is easy and sweet as breathing, and sometimes it’s like holding the palm of your hand over a candle) and thinks of how far away from home she is. Old homes, and new ones, and all the places in between that felt like home at the time. She thinks of how long it’s been since she’s seen winter, the sky going grey-gold with falling snow.

When Brooke opens her eyes, Vanjie’s watching her.

“Don’t go getting down on yourself, Miss Brooke Lynn,” she says. “Mama Ru will clock that self-doubt and come after you. She eats. That. Shit. Up.”

“Right. Jesus, you’re right.” Brooke concentrates on the glowing ember at the tip of her cigarette, and not the way the dim lights catch Vanjie’s cheekbones. “Anyway, how are you holding up? Feel different than last season?”

“Since it’s been a minute and I’m still here? Fuck yeah it feels different. Ha!” All the teasing electricity in her eyes goes soft, and Vanjie’s quiet for a moment. A smudge of glitter still sparkles at the hollow of her throat. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m back.  That they let me come back.  Shit.” 

“Fans would have rioted if they didn’t bring you back.” Brooke fills the air with smoke as she breathes.  _“I_ certainly would have.”

“Yeah?” Vanjie raises an eyebrow. “Maybe I _should_ start smoking, since y’all making it look so good. Sitting out here in the dark like a tall glass of Clearly Canadian.”

“I don’t think they even make that any more.”

“Know your history, bitch.”

Brooke laughs again, helpless in the face of so much charm. “You know you still have glitter on you? Your neck. Just -”

She reaches out to wipe it away, but before she can make contact with skin, Vanjie’s hand catches hers. Holds. 

Brooke doesn’t move.  

She isn’t generally a reckless person - she’s poised, efficient, ruthless. (She wants all those things to be true. She wants to be smarter than this. She wants to feel the pulse point beating in Vanjie’s wrist like a metronome.  She wants -) 

“Shoulda known you’d be a Pisces,” Vanjie says before she kisses her. 

As kisses go - it’s in the Top Three of Brooke’s life.

(Number One: hasn’t happened yet. That’ll come later, payoff worth the wait and then some. 

Number Two: her first kiss.  First with a boy anyway - drunk and seventeen and gasping with the realization that _she could have this._ This was okay.  It was okay.

Number Three is Vanessa Vanjie Mateo, tasting like mint and still glittery, hand clutching tight to Brooke’s (who isn’t shaking, she _isn’t.)_   There’s a hint of tongue at the corner of her mouth, and it’s all Brooke can do not to clutch fistfuls of that hoodie and drag Vanjie against her.  Hold her tight.  Keep her close.  Brooke doesn’t know how she’ll ever manage to pry her hands away.)

Then the door creaks as it opens. 

Brooke has just enough self-control to pull back before Yvie’s coming out, digging into the pockets of her skinny jeans for a lighter and scowling.

Not looking up.  Not looking at them.

“We’ve apparently got five minutes to get to the van.  Christ, that paint did not want to come - oh.” She glances up. “Didn’t know you smoked, Vee.”

And Vanjie grins, showing the white of her teeth (“Ain’t I full of surprises, bitch?”) and Brooke swan-dives to the pavement, through the ground, clean through the centre of the earth. 

She was already half-way there, but fuck her life: she falls.


	2. Chapter 2

Social media -

Is not Brock’s strength area. 

Detox used to hassle him about it before he even went on Drag Race, and he made a promise to himself that he would do a better job after.  Tell the world when he - ate a bowl of cereal or whatever. 

Post photos of his cats at the very least.

So when his manager comes to him with the expectation that he and Jose play up their relationship for the fans, Brock says: (nonononononononononono)

He says “fine.”

Jose’s in, apparently, and - well, Brock can only take that information second-hand because the two of them haven’t really.  Spoken. Recently. 

He says “fine” and then he goes on Jose’s Instagram and almost has a panic attack (because _some people_ are so pretty it is unfair, some people are basically built to break your heart - from atoms to molecules to cells.

Jose in sweats and snapbacks. 

Vanessa in gloss and feathers. 

Each one feels like a hand around Brock’s throat.)

So. 

After about thirty minutes in the fetal position, Brock leaves it all in his manager’s hands (or whoever his manager is paying for social media these days.)  Someone adds flirty comments and cute photos to anything Jose posts, someone keeps the fans happy.  

Brock doesn’t need to see it.

It’s too soon (too much, too real) for him.

He tries to avoid Instagram; Twitter is about all he can handle (he knows his mom follows him and he doesn’t want to make her worry.)  He doesn’t read  any of the speculative articles about their relationship, but he is always extremely polite when he’s asked about it (just flirty enough to give the fans hope. Professional, friendly, not too fond. It’s a fine line, and he worries sometimes that his feelings rise a bit close to the surface.  That the people who know him best are going to watch one of these interviews, peer through the ice at his blue skin and _see everything_.)

Friends keep texting him.  Leaving him voicemails, asking him how he’s doing.  Brock ignores the ones he can, and responds whenever anyone seems a bit too concerned. Gotta make sure the outside world stays outside.

Clearly it’s all going to come out by the time the finale airs, and that’s just something Brock will have to be ready for.  Maybe he can do a European tour.  Or an Antarctic one.  They don’t have internet there, do they?

_He’s wonderful, I love him_ , he says on ET Canada as if that doesn’t mean anything, as if it isn’t the first time he’s said ‘I love him’ out loud.

Brock keeps working (because he’s still a force of nature, even without a crown.)  He does shows across the mid-West, hosts club nights, dances the house down because he is a _queen_ , damn it. He goes on tour with the _First Wives Fight Club,_ let’s Ginger Minj distract him with the most offensive jokes Brock’s ever heard (and it’s good to feel outrage rather than longing, for a change. It’s good to do something different, something that’s not related to Drag Race and soft-skinned Puerto Ricans who won’t answer his calls.)

Or _probably_ won’t.

Because Brock hasn’t called.  

It’s shady and pathetic and each day feels like pulling teeth out, but he’s trying to respect the boundaries Jose put up. They said their piece at the reunion before Brock died of blunt force trauma to the chest (it’s fine, he’s fine) and he’s not the kind of person to push someone to take him back.  

To beg someone to want him. 

He can’t say if it’s pride or fear that stops him every time he gets shit-faced and picks up his phone.  He can’t count the number of texts he’s written and then deleted.  And then re-written.

The night after the _First Wives_ show in Vancouver, the other queens go out to whatever local club hasn’t been closed yet, and Brock goes for a run on the beach. It’s dark out, and after a couple of miles he stops, stretches, and sits cross-legged in the sand.  

The ocean reaches out for him, black-fingered and impetuous, dotted with the twinkling lights of oil tankers. 

Brock hasn’t had anything to drink.  There’s really no excuse when he takes his phone out of his pocket, scrolls to Jose’s number.

His thumb hovers over the keys, thinking thinking (over-thinking).

( _I’m on the West coast and I’m miserable without you and I want to hear you laugh again even if it’s at me even if it’s mean I want to hear your voice and you killed it on Jimmy Kimmel and I’m losing my mind I think you’re incredible I think you’re hilarious and brilliant and I miss you I miss youImiss -_ )

“Damn it,” Brock hisses, because he’s smarter than this. He’s stronger than this (he wants that to be true.)

“I’ll be at Drag Con,” he texts before he can think too much about it. “Hope i see u.”

He waits.  He’ll probably delete it without sending.  He _should_ delete it without sending because Jose doesn’t want to talk to him.

His thumb sits on the ‘Send’ key, barely touching it.  It’s such a pointless, empty message.  It doesn’t say any of the things he wants to say. 

This was easy once.  Talking to Jose was like breathing. What the fuck happened? (He knows what happened, and he resists the urge to throw his phone into the sea.)

After a few seconds, Brock deletes the message and puts his phone down. 

Then he picks it back up.

He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit he mostly gave up in middle school.

This was easy once. 

(“When this is all over –“

“Oh Jesus, oh Mary, there she goes.” Vanjie at her station, rummaging through yards of tulle. “You wanna shack up or something? Get cats, turn me into a proper wifey?”

“Well.  I was thinking more like buy you dinner.”  Brooke doesn’t touch her, because the world is watching. Still - her eyes linger on the bones of Vanjie’s hands, her wrists, her jaw.  There is not a part of her body that doesn’t beg for contact, not a part of her that Brooke doesn’t want to touch.

“Ha, okay. But I’m a classy ho.  It’s gotta be Olive Garden at least, get me some unlimited breadsticks.”  

There’s a faint blush on her cheekbones even though she’s rolling her eyes, and it makes Brooke love her even more than –

Shit.

_Shit._

She did not just think that word.  

They aren’t - there yet.  Brooke’s tired and stressed and her brain is clearly short-circuiting. It’s nothing.  It’s fine.

“That shut you up, hey? Olive Garden too bougie for you? Don’t worry, girl– when this is all over and I’m a honey-thousand dollars richer, I’ll take you anywhere you want.”)

He should have known then.

Stopped it all in its tracks before it got totally out of control. But he didn’t.

Brock lies back against the sand, breathes in the copper-sweet taste of the ocean.  

(“ _That’s a star, right?”)_  

The waves roll in, and he can almost see stars.

* * *

Back in her hotel room, she’s running over choreography for Tuckpantistan in her head, counting under her breath (one and two and three and -) when a noise distracts her.  

A papery scratching at her hotel-room door.  When Brooke goes to investigate, she sees a folded note that’s been slid underneath it.

**_U up?_ **

Then below it: **_Haha, JK. Got a PA to deliver this, some real high school shit. Thinking bout your pretty face. <3 <3 <3_**

It’s signed **_Papi_** and Brooke turns rose-petal pink with embarrassment and pleasure.  Fuck, she wishes she had her phone. Wishes she could FaceTime Vanjie any time she wanted, see her all bleary-eyed and soft and sleepy.  Just the thought of that image makes Brooke’s heart clench painfully, and she tries not to think about why.

Instead she takes out the notepad from the desk in the hotel room.

**_How do I know this is really you and not just a producer fucking with me?_ **

She folds the paper into a flat square and writes **_Return to Sender_** on the front of it, before sliding it under her hotel room door. 

Then she immediately feels like an idiot.

This is ridiculous.  They aren’t teenagers.

Brooke goes back to rehearsing for tomorrow, and tells herself there isn’t a stupid smile on her face.  That would just be too undignified. 

About fifteen minutes later (not that Brooke was counting or paying attention or anything) she hears that same scratching sound, and goes back to the door.  A new piece of paper has been slid underneath it, and Brooke bites down on a grin.

**_You want a ring or some shit?_ **

**_Thought you’d like that, something only the real MISS VANESSA VANJIE MATEO would know. This PA’s real nice, I’ma take advantage of her. UNLESS SHE’S READING THIS._ **

**_What you wearing?_ **

Brooke snorts out a laugh (then covers her face and pretend that sound didn’t just come out of her.)  She sketches out a quick, terribly unsexy picture of herself (basically a beefy stickman in pajama pants and a t-shirt) then folds it up and sticks it back under the door.  This is the most bizarre flirtation she has ever taken part in, and - and she shouldn’t enjoy it as much as she does.

Vanjie’s reply includes a decidedly more X-rated stickman.

**_I better get some nudes next. Gotta occupy my time somehow besides missing on you._ **

Brooke laughs at the thought of the horrified PA that could be reading this.

**_You’ve seen it all in the werkroom anyway,_** she writes, **_And you could occupy your time with sleeping, maybe?_**

Brooke sends the note off, and gives up the ghost of rehearsing for a minute. She stretches out on her bed, arms against the headboard and bare feet nearly hanging off the end.  Story of her life, really.  She’s always felt like she’s too big, too tall, too much.  Compared to Vanessa, she’s like some sort of beast, stumbling around crushing beautiful, delicate things beneath her feet.  

Vanessa is beautiful. Brooke wouldn’t call her ‘delicate’ though, not by a long shot. She knows Vanjie well enough by now to know that she can hold her own.  

(She wonders how much of that attitude is for the show. What Vanjie’s like when she’s all alone.  Every so often there’s a moment where it seems like the other queen is letting her guard down, softening the sideways grin and adorable swagger that Brooke sees when the cameras are rolling. 

And how much of that is protective, Brooke wonders.  How much of that swagger is self-defense.

How much of that humor is about survival.)

There is a reply not even ten minutes later: **_Nah girl, you’re keeping me up. Gonna think about you in those overalls all night, haha. When I can’t do shit tomorrow I’ll be blaming your fine self for messing with my head._**

Brooke folds and unfolds Vanjie’s reply too many times, unwilling to put it down. She’s glad she can’t see herself, knows that she’s probably glowing with affection. She’s got a crush, right, just like she told them in the confessional.  That’s what this is. Just a massive, ridiculous crush. 

An impossible, stupid, hopeless crush.

**_I take no responsibility for that._ **

**_But also your angel costume is the real problem here, how am I supposed to get anything done?_ **

**_Go to sleep and dream about my overalls, Miss Vaaaaanjie._ **

Brooke has had crushes before.  She’s always survived them.

When she slides her note back under the door she thinks that will be the end of it, but a reply comes later, clock nearing midnight and shadows creeping like fingers through the blinds.

**_Sweet dreams Brooky Poo._ **

Brooke holds the note against her chest, and laughs, and when she falls asleep she’s still smiling.  Her dreams are full of white feathers, falling gently as snow from the ceiling of her hotel room. Settling soft as a promise against Brooke’s open mouth.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Brock was an emotional child. He said it on the show and it’s the truth. Growing up, he was labeled “too sensitive,” the little boy who rescued spiders instead of stomping on them, who cried over books (don’t even get him started on _Where the Red Fern Grows)_ and was quiet at birthday parties. It didn’t take him long as a teenager to realize that being that sort of person was not okay at all ( _what are you GAY or something?_ ), and so brick by brick, he built walls. 

You keep walls up long enough and you start to think they’ve always been there. That you’ve always been a private person, the kind that would make a joke instead of acknowledging a shared pain.  The kind that would force a smile while the world was ending.

You start to think, maybe, you were born with those walls around your heart.

Maybe the walls _are_ your heart.  

But Brock knows that even brick doesn’t last forever. In Toronto you’d see the old buildings starting to crumble in the winter, damaged by water that froze and cracked their foundations.  Brick walls can chip, can shatter.  Brock’s spent his twenties and early thirties in perpetual maintenance because he knows (he _knows)_ you let a little bit of emotion through, you lose a little bit of self-control, and you lose everything.

Sometimes he feels an odd sort of - not jealousy exactly, but something _hungry_ around queens like Yvie, queens that can go places, be self-righteous and furious and vulnerable, without falling completely to pieces.  Queens like Silky who can rage and shout and then move on like the storm never came.

Queens like Vanjie.

Episode 6 is a tough watch. Vanjie crying in the werkroom is physically painful, and Brock puts on a brave face, smiles for his friends and does not let his walls down. He can’t afford to.

Episode 7 is tough in a different way. It’s beyond uncomfortable watching himself talk about personal things on television, hard not to feel like the worst sort of demure Canadian stereotype.  He watches _Untucked_ at an after-after-party, and that’s even worse. Everyone seems to love his stupid face, mugging for the fucking camera (and he remembers being a little buzzed but nowhere near as drunk as the world seems to think he is.  Those cocktails are more than half ice and probably watered-down vodka anyway.)

More than that, though, is the sight of Vanjie. He hates the way her eyes go dark with surprise and injury after Yvie calls her out. He hates the argument that follows. He even hates the sight of himself building a fucking pillow-fort (incredible legs aside, he’s not blind). It seemed funny enough at the time but now - not so much.

Sometime around 2 am, his phone rings. 

Brock is not asleep. He fumbles for a moment on the side table, forgetting briefly that he’s in a hotel and not in his own bed. (He’s always in a hotel these days.  And that’s fine.  It’s fine.) 

“‘lo?”

“Hi mama.”

Breathe in.  Hold.  Breathe out.

“Hi papi.”

There is music in the background, dulled slightly but still Brock can make out the thump of a DJ, the thunder of a dancefloor. Jose must be in the dressing room of a club. 

Brock imagines him, shining with sweat after a show, out of heels but still in lip gloss.  If he closes his eyes he can see him, an image distorted by fantasy and loss, bright strokes of crimson oil-paint. 

“How you doing?” Jose asks and Brock swallows down a million replies that are too painful to say. 

Instead - because he bottles up his feelings like a normal person - he says “Good.” (There are walls around his heart, and they are wrapped in thorns.) “Good. How are you?”

“I’m good.” 

Both of them breathe together, and it’s simultaneously too intimate and too distant. The last time they spoke - the last time Brock heard this voice there were tears in his eyes and bile in his mouth and ashes all over the runway - 

“Good,” he says stupidly, and Jose laughs. 

It’s a brittle sort of laugh, but Brock still  wishes to God he hadn’t heard it.  Jose’s laugh is something deadly, a poison-tipped arrow straight to the heart.  

“Just watching the show tonight, girl. Thought I’d give you a call.”

“Okay.” Brock hesitates to respond, certain he’s going to fuck this up.  It’s the first time in months he’s got Jose on the phone; fucking it all up is the only possible option. 

“It’s a trip, hey, seeing it on TV. Feels like I’m watching someone else.”

“Yeah,” Brock says.  Fuck, he’s really cementing those accusations of having no personality. Say something. Say something.

But he doesn’t. There is too much unsaid between them, all those words stacking up behind Brock’s teeth when he tries to speak, his throat when he tries to swallow. He’s imagined this conversation too many times to count, and now all he can do is listen in silence to the sound of Jose’s breathing, still audible over the music that’s pulsing like a heartbeat in another room.

“Loved you on Untucked, making all them faces. Must’ve been hard listenin’ to me go off in the background, feelin’ so embarrassed.”

“I wasn’t –“

“Gotta build a pillow fort or some shit.  Real hilarious. Real comedy queen.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Brock interrupts, but now that he thinks about it – he can see how it might have looked that way.  And he knows Jose was feeling sensitive already about that night, can remember the moment afterwards in his hotel room (“I wanna be better than that,” and his hand on Jose’s throat, sparks flying from their lips, his tongue -) 

_Stop._

He can’t think about that right now.

“Whatever,” Jose says at last.  He sounds exhausted. “I'm not coming for you. Sorry, I’m working too much, not sleeping. You know how we do. I’m kinda fading out.”

He sighs, and Brock swears he can feel the ghost of that sigh against his neck. It raises goosebumps all up the length of his arms, his shoulder blades.

“Where are you?”

“NYC, baby. Where you at?”

Brock almost doesn’t want to tell him. “Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.”

“The fuck - that ain’t a real place.”

“Swear to God.  It’s in Canada.”

“Ha, now _that_ explains it. Didn’t know you got cell service up there, in your igloos or whatever.”

“You are such a dick.”

“Don’t lie, girl, we know you love -” Jose stops himself. Brock can basically hear the smile sliding off his face. 

He’d forgotten how easy it was, when it was just the two of them.  Forgotten how fast he could fall.

“Anyway, um.” Jose clears his throat.  “I called because of all this online shit – I shoulda said before – it ain’t me. I didn’t want you to think - cuz I’m not postin’ shit right now, and –

“Wait. What?”

“Yeah, I shoulda told you sooner. My manager’s paying someone for it, some toddler or something, right? I know we’re s’posed to be all nasty for the fans but it just –“

“It’s not me either,” Brock says quickly. “Someone else is writing it.”

There’s a short silence on the other end of the line. Then Jose laughs again, warm and real this time (Brock has to put out a hand to steady himself even though he’s lying down.)

“Girl, what? I didn’t know that! That’s crazy! Meanwhile I’m feeling so – all these queens tonight were reading me for it, and I was like ‘bitch, mind your business!’ This is some kinda twisted.”

Brock laughs too, helplessly. This whole situation is so fucking ridiculous, it’s unbelievable.

He’s riding the high of Jose’s laughter, feeling like he can breathe for the first time in months, and that’s the only reason he says: “It’s good to hear your voice.” 

Jose stops laughing.  

There is silence again, only broken by the bass thumping in the background. Brock thinks about how quickly he could be in New York if he caught a standby flight.  If Jose asked him - 

Say something, Brock. Fuck’s sake, say something.

“Thought you’d’ve heard enough of it by now.” Jose’s gone a bit quiet.  Brock wonders if he has that crease on his forehead that means he’s upset. Wishes he could smooth it away with the pad of his thumb.

“That will never happen.” He can't imagine a world where that voice doesn't do something to him, doesn't wake up some hidden place that hasn't seen sunshine in years. “Jose -”

The music suddenly gets louder, and there’s another voice in the background. Jose says something that Brock can’t quite hear.  Someone else laughs.

“Shit, girl, I gotta go. You be good now. I’ll -“ Jose cuts himself off abruptly. Brock waits. Waits. The rest of the sentence never comes, but Jose doesn’t hang up. Brock hears him swear under his breath.

It shouldn’t be like this, Brock wants to scream into the phone. You _knew_ me.  You knew me once.  You left glitter on my pillow.

“Can I call you?” he asks instead. “Later. Or whenever. Just to –” He suddenly doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“To?”

“Plan,” is the first word that comes into his head. “Plan - for that episode.  Like, how we’re going to react.  What we should say.”

“Oh.” Jose takes a deep breath. “Sure, yeah. I gotta go, Brock. You – call me later.”

“Okay. Um. Try to get some sleep.” 

“Not much chance of that, girl. But what ya gonna do?”

The call ends. Brock closes his eyes.

The sudden silence feels heavy on his chest, like one of those weighted blankets Nina’s always telling him to get.  He puts his phone to the side. With his eyes closed he can still see that back-room in the club, Jose taking off his lashes, rolling his shoulders. Brock can almost feel sore muscles beneath his hands, and his fingers twitch against his sheets.

 _Oh if you were mine_. 

That’s from a song, right? He can’t remember which one, but it runs in his head as he doesn’t sleep, over and over like a pinwheel spinning.

(And Brock doesn’t know it now, can’t feel it, but somewhere in the walls he’s built, a crack is starting to form.  

It spreads through his foundation, shifting it just slightly.  Not enough that anyone would notice.  

Not yet.)

* * *

The night after Farm to Runway, Brooke is wired and awake and trying unsuccessfully to get into a trashy thriller that her mom leant her - when there’s a knock at her door. 

She doesn’t know what to expect  when she opens it. Maybe a P.A. with a note from Vee, maybe a producer about to institute a strict “one-cocktail-per-Untucked” limit. 

She’s not expecting Vanessa herself, wearing shorts and a loose t-shirt, looking more nervous than Brooke’s ever seen her.

“Hey mama. Can I come in?”

“Uh -”

Behind Vanjie, a little baby-lesbian with a badass haircut and Harry Potter glasses gives a short nod.  

“This is Maya, she’s real sweet, she said we got five minutes. Bye Maya!” Vanjie steps through Brooke’s doorway, shutting it behind her.

“Holy shit.” Brooke just stares at her for a moment. “You’re breaking all the rules now, huh.”

“Yeah, just call me muthafucking Willam. This your digs, huh? Shoulda known you’d be crazy tidy. Bitch, you even got shit hanging in the closet? GIRL. You hang up your t-shirts? My Abuela woulda loved you, for real.”

The hyperactive and adorable narration isn’t totally abnormal for Vanjie and yet - something about it strikes Brooke as odd tonight. Uneasy. 

“So - you came here to check out my room?”

“Nah, I just - I mean, it’s fine.  Thought I’d come see ya. Didn’t get much chance to - to -” Vanjie’s  hands flutter through the air, restlessly. “Wanted to talk in the van but you know, with Big Silky around, there’s not much chance of that.”

“Okay...” Brooke sits down on the edge of her bed. Vanjie can’t seem to stop moving, shifting from one foot to the other. “What did you want to talk about?”

“All that, you know, shit this evening.” The corner of Vanjie’s mouth twitches up. “Thought maybe you’d be feeling some kinda way about it.  About me.”

So that’s what this is. Brooke follows the movement of Vanjie’s hands - pulling at a sleeve, ruffling her hair, twisting together like rope.

“I don’t -”

“Don’t say nothing, lemme finish. I don’t know why it got so real tonight, fucking Yvie coming for me  - but I’m not getting into it again, she has her own shit to deal with and we’re gonna - we’ll be good. But I clocked the way you were looking at me, there was a moment there - and I thought I had to tell you, you know, that I don’t do that shit on the regular. That’s not me.”

“Wait - you don’t have to apologize or -”

“I don’t wanna be that bitch. You know, I’ve been that bitch before, and I wanna be better than that.”

“Vanjie,” Brooke stands back up, stepping across the room and stopping the movements of Vanjie’s hands with her own. 

Vanjie immediately looks up at her, tilting her jaw back like it’s a challenge.  

Her fingers are warm. They slide gently against Brooke’s. 

“I like the way you are,” Brooke says, and Vanjie does that odd, slanted smile that Brooke’s seen so many times in the werkroom, the one that makes something spark and stutter in Brooke’s chest. 

“Who wouldn’t?  I mean -” Vanjie does a little shimmy but doesn’t let go of Brooke’s hands. And self-deprecating is not really something Brooke thought she’d see in this queen, but that’s what this feels like.  Whether the girl is shimmying or not.

“Yes, we all know you’re fucking gorgeous. But I don’t just mean - that.” Brooke’s throat is getting tight, and she flashes back to her conversation with Ru that afternoon ( _talking about serious things always makes me cry.  It gives me anxiety just thinking about it.)_

Fuck.  Congrats Brooke on being the whitest person in Drag Race herstory.

“I mean.  I like the way you are.” Brooke releases a breath, and if she gets teary-eyed now she’s going to throw herself off the balcony. She removes one hand from Vanjie’s grasp, lifts it to the side of Vanjie’s face. “Like, all of it.”

Something creases between Vanjie’s brows, a tiny flicker of pain that is instantly smoothed over. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then she leans her head into Brooke’s palm. 

“Bitch, why your hands so soft?” Vanessa murmurs, and Brooke drags her other hand up over Vanjie’s throat, and wishes that the world outside that closed door could just go away for one night. Just give them one night alone together, give Brooke one night to touch Vanjie every where she wants to, memorize the freckles on her hips and the ticklish places on her knees and suck her off and hold her close and kiss her until she was drunk with it, kiss her until -

\- you know what, fuck it.

Brooke hauls Vanjie up, off the ground and into her arms. Vanjie laughs low and rough as she wraps her legs around Brooke’s hips, and Brooke walks them backwards until Vanjie is pressed against the hotel room wall and they are kissing, mouths open and hot and wet. 

When their hips grind together, it feels like a gun going off. Brooke’s knees are shaking already.

Vanjie uses her tongue like it’s a weapon, kisses as demanding as her personality, and Brooke’s never felt like this, never. This isn’t a quick peck in the werkroom or backstage lounge, this is finally getting Vanjie where Brooke wants her, finally getting her alone. 

“Will you fuck me?” Vanjie pulls back, eyes dazed and lips swollen.  “I want you to, I been thinking about it -”

“Oh my god,” Brooke whispers, because _yes_ to that, right now that is the only thing she wants in the whole world. 

Vanjie’s hands are on Brooke’s t-shirt, pushing it up as she scrapes her teeth along the edge of Brooke’s jaw.  Brooke frees one of her hands to fist it in Vanjie’s hair, tilting her head back so their mouths meet again.

“You gotta,” Vanjie says, “Please. I can’t stop wanting it.” 

“Okay.” Brooke’s beyond reason at this point, can’t think about anything except the warm body writhing against hers and how to get them both naked as soon as fucking possible.

A knock at the door makes them both freeze. 

Their eyes meet in horror - like they’re teenagers whose parents have come home too early - before the absurdity of the situation hits them both at the same time, and they start giggling like idiots. 

“Start the clock, bitch!” Vanjie yells, and Brooke snorts with laughter, and then they’re kissing again, smiling against each other’s lips. Brooke waits for reality to kick in, hoping it will take its time.

But it doesn’t (the knock at the door comes again, slightly more insistent.)

“Damn it.  Okay. Okay. Just -” Brooke reluctantly lowers Vanjie to the floor, both of them moaning at the delicious slide of contact between their bodies. “I’m not getting us kicked off Drag Race.”

“It’d be worth it, baby,” Vanjie purrs, batting her eyelashes until Brooke has no choice but to lean down and kiss her again, hands winding in her hair, Christ, she tastes like peppermint and cream soda and -

“Wait.  Okay.” Brooke drops her hands, fists clenching. “No, don’t look at me like that. I can’t - “

“Like this?” Vanessa grins all sly and sexy up at her.

“Yes, like -” Brooke has to take a few steps backwards, putting some distance between them while she can. 

“Ugh, you’re a monster, it’s not fair.” Vanjie straightens up her shirt, tries to pat her hair into something less obvious.  “You get to look so fine, _and_ send me packing?” 

“It’ll be worth it,” Brooke says, not certain what she’s talking about.  Worth the wait? Worth the prize? Worth a month in a sparkly warzone shooting glances at each other over sewing machines?  “When I win, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Ha! Fuck that, Mary, you just try it.  You can use some of my dollah bills to wipe your tears.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a dick.” Brooke shakes her head, and Vanjie winks.

“Yeah, well, you know you love it.” She crosses to the door. “Nighty night, Brooky Poo.”

Brooke stares after her long after she’s gone, knees still shaking.  

Mouth still sweet as peppermint.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Relationships for Brock have always been complicated. He really hasn’t met a whole lot of queer people who don’t have some kind of emotional hang-up based as a result of the world they live in. And his journey’s been easier than a lot of other people’s, so really, he should be over this by now. But he still has a helpless association between want and guilt, like the moment he feels something good it’s a ticking clock until it’s going to be taken away. 

His most long-term relationship has been with ballet, and then he cheated on it with drag. He can’t imagine loving anything more than that. The thought makes him feel a bit sick to his stomach, because - that kind of love would be overwhelming. As big as the world. Completely uncontrollable, and Brock has to be in control.

But when he watches himself on Drag Race, there are moments up there when he sees someone who - _isn’t._ In total control, that is. Sure, he presents a very polished,  curated image but sometimes he does this smile thing when he’s asked about Vanjie and it’s - just not a face he’s ever seen himself making. He knows what his face looks like. When did it start looking like that?

He goes out after the Snatch Game watch-party with a couple of other queens, ones he barely knows (but he’s trying to be unreasonably social, trying to stay distracted.)  He can barely look at the screen as he epically bombs a Canadian legend, so he drinks too quickly, and talks to the bartender, and pretends to be live-tweeting when isn’t. There’s a guy there too (Jeff? James?) leaning close to Brock, touching him too much, buying him drinks he doesn’t want. Brock accepts them anyway, wanting to feel _anything_ but his feelings.

His friends suggest another bar, and he follows them, and Jeff or James is comes too. There are vodka shots (he thinks) and Vanessa’s beautiful face on yet another screen and more shots and Jeff/James’ arm around Brock’s shoulders.

And Brock doesn’t want his arm there. But he laughs and smiles and reprises his war-crime of a French Canadian accent, because that’s easier.  Easier than remembering that episode, those feelings. The sight of Vanjie, silver sequins across the mainstage, lips parting. the thought of: “this is it, they’re in the bottom two, it’s over.”

It wasn’t over then, of course. It is now.

Brock thinks he gets Jeff/James number although he can’t remember asking for it. Do they kiss? He hopes they don’t.  

Somehow Brock is in an alley, leaning against a brick wall because he doesn’t think he can stand.

Somehow Brock is in his bed, and there are cats on his pillow.

Somehow Brock is on his phone, FaceTiming someone. Who is he FaceTiming oh dear GOD don’t be -

It’s too late, there’s no going back, and Yvie Oddly’s furious eyes are glaring at him.  No, his name is Jovan. They’re here in the real world, they’re not on the show (Brock sometimes has to remind himself of that.)

“ _Oh._ ” Jovan says that one syllable like an obscenity, rubbing his hands over his face. Brock can barely make him out in the darkness. “I see you’re handling things well.”

Jovan’s in bed somewhere, still wrapped up in blankets.

“Whosit?” a quiet voice slurs somewhere beside him, a tumble of long dark hair against a white pillowcase. Jovan frowns and murmurs something indistinguishable, picking the phone up and taking it somewhere brighter.

Brock regrets everything, all of it. “Sorry - I shouldn’t have called.”

“There are lots of things you shouldn’t have done. I don’t know if calling me at 3 am makes the top five.”

(Top Five Things Brock Shouldn’t Have Done:

Number One, and fine, Number Two as well: Fallen stupidly, clumsily, unspeakably in love on national goddamn television. On a reality show, for Christ’s sake, like he’s a contestant on the Bachelorette, like he’s the kind of person who would confuse a paying gig with something real.  Looked across a set full of cameras and lights and P.A.s and thought ‘holy shit, that’s Miss Vanjie,’ and then - not even one day later - thought ‘holy shit. I’m in so much trouble.’

Number Three:  Started smoking.  That stuff will kill you, and it’s so fucking hard to quit.  He’s tried seven times, and the longest he ever managed it was six months, but he was touring and he was gaining weight and his body-issues were out of control at the time, so.  Yeah. Don’t ever start, is what he’s saying.

Number Four: That Celine Dion, Jesus Lord, it was just hideous.  The memory still wakes him in the night in a cold sweat. 

Number Five: Thrown Ru-Paul’s fucking Drag Race.)

“I’m drunk.” The bedroom is spinning. The cats are in danger.

“Yeah, you are. Girl, what is going on with you?”

“I just - I know we can’t talk about it. But I wanted -”

In the dull light of a kitchen, Jovan raises an exhausted eyebrow - or at least the place where an eyebrow would be if he had one.

“I wanted to talk to someone who was there.” (Because Nina wasn’t there.  And Plastique wasn’t there.  And sometimes the weight of what happened seems unbearable on Brock’s shoulders.  And sometimes he wonders if he even remembers it right.  Sometimes he thinks that when the episode airs it’s going to be a completely different picture than the one he painted in his memory. Uglier. Bright and graceless and cheap.)

Jovan lets out a long, deep sigh. Brock can faintly hear a clock ticking in the background. 

“Okay. Fine. I was there.  But you know who else was?”

“Yvie -”

“Your fucking _boyfriend_. Remember that? So maybe there’s someone else you should be drunk-dialing at ass-crack-o’clock in the morning.” Jovan’s volume is starting to build, but he brings it down, casting a nervous look over his shoulder.  “Listen, Brooke, you made a choice.  Okay? You can’t go back, and you can’t beat yourself up for the rest of your life. There’s got to be a point where you move the fuck on.”

“I know.” This is why Brock called, must be what his vodka-soaked brain was thinking.  Jovan can be mean and he can be abrasive but he’s never anything other than honest. 

“And like, I’m pretty sure she’s fucking other people. Someone was posting about it. So.” (Okay, maybe a bit too honest _Jesus fucking hell_ -)

Brock’s face must do something in response to that statement, because Jovan suddenly looks - sad.  Ugh, that’s even worse than furious.

“Does she know?” Jovan asks before Brock can say anything.

“Know what?”

“Fuck off, ‘know what.’ Have you told her you’re in love with her?”

(“ _You want a ring or some shit_?”)

Brock doesn’t answer. 

Because - he hasn’t told Jose, not in those words.  Not - out loud.

Jovan nods sharply.  “And there it fucking is. Why do I have to have this conversation with you if you can’t cowgirl up enough to get your man back? I know this timid Canadian bullshit was good for the fans, they fucking ate it up, but this is real life now, girl. You can’t blame a bad edit.”

“Didn’t you just tell me to move the fuck on?”

“Well bitch, now you have two options. Maybe pick _one._ At least you’d be doing _something_.”

After Jovan says goodbye (well, flips him off and hangs up) Brock is still too tipsy for his own good. So he does another stupid stupid thing. He goes online.

There’s this picture floating around of the two of them. He remembers the P.A. taking it in the back seat of the van, promising them he’d send it to their managers (“Omg, you’re so cute right now.”) Brock looks at it for a long time, and there is sand and saltwater under his fingernails.

Is this what a heart attack feels like? Maybe he’s having a heart attack. 

Maybe he should try to quit smoking again.

Maybe he should listen to Yvie.

( _Move the fuck on. She’s fucking other people_.)

Relationships for Brock are complicated.  It’s only ever been simple once.

* * *

There’s a heatwave in L.A. and production takes them to a beach.

The whole area is guarded by P.A.’s on walkies, but it’s the queens’ day off, and there are no cameras for once. Everyone loses their shit after Brooke emerges from the changerooms with a wide-brimmed hat and long linen shirt over her swimsuit; for all that she’s accused of being thirsty AF, she’s still a pasty white chick who’ll burn in under thirty minutes. Vanjie laughs so loud and long when she sees her that it’s almost worth it (“yass girl, live that Diane Keaton fantasy.”)  

When they get to the water, Vanjie is quick to ditch her clothes in favour of the tiniest black speedo, and a thin gold chain. She looks like a picture Brooke might have hidden under the mattress as a teenager, and Vanjie knows it.  She grins at Brooke as she rubs some sort of oil on her (perfect, gorgeous) skin, and Brooke thinks she must have gotten too much sun already, might faint or dissolve with the weight of this wanting. 

“Eyes up here, bitch,” Vanessa smirks at her as she walks past, heading toward the shoreline. Brooke watches her go, can’t help herself. After that precious five minutes in Brooke’s hotel room, every second around Vanjie seems electric. Brooke keeps having these terrible, delicious thoughts of pushing her up against every hard surface she sees; the stations in the werkroom, the side of the van, the runway.  The way Vanjie’s body was warm and trembling, the way her eyes were blown black, the harsh rasp of her voice - _fuck_.  

Brooke shouldn’t be thinking of this while wearing a swimsuit, she’s going to get arrested.

She lathers on the sunblock and keeps the hat (but undoes her shirt, so that’s something. She might regret it later when she’s lobster red, but she’s beginning to feel a bit like the girls’ spinster aunt chaperone.)

Yvie, seemingly oblivious to the heat, remains in long black jeans and a ripped up sweatshirt.  She hangs back under a beach umbrella, nose stuck in a copy of _Blood and Guts in High School_ while the other girls frolic in the surf like puppies or nymphs or something.  Brooke sits with her for a bit, watches A’Keria and Silky and Vanjie hassle each other, laughing and swearing as they try to push Silky underwater.

Brooke isn’t sure what expression is on her face as she studies Vanessa from a distance, but it can’t be dignified. She twines her hands together, smiles down at her knees before anyone calls her out for it.

Of course, she’s too late.  When she glances back up, Yvie is looking at her over the top of her tiny round sunglasses. She does not look impressed.

“You know what you’re doing?”

Brooke doesn’t bother pretending to be confused.  She’s been asking herself the same question a lot lately. Too often to not be a bit of a red flag.  A pink flag at least.

“We’re just flirting.  It’s fun, we’re not –“

“Yeah, but like maybe drop the bullshit for ten seconds and remember that this is a competition.  You know they’re going to make you lip-sync, right?”

Brooke’s mind goes conspicuously blank for a moment.  She forces herself to take a breath, do a grounding exercise. Obviously it’s a thought she’s had before.  She knows it would be a gag, knows it would be good television. But it’s also something Brooke has to avoid thinking about, move her thoughts in pirouettes and backbends around the idea, because she doesn’t know how else to survive. She can’t - she can’t be the one who sends Vanjie home.  It just can’t happen.

“We’ll have to stay out of the bottom then.”

“Girl, they won’t care, they’ll fucking _put_ you in the bottom to get that storyline.  That’s the tea. Can you handle it? Because you’ve got little hearts floating around your head right now –“

“Fuck off –“

“-and I don’t think it’s an act. I think you’re trying to be cool about it, but you’re not being cool at all. The pair of you are being absolutely the least cool.”

Brooke rolls her eyes.  Yvie’s been pissy since Scarlet left, but she doesn’t need to come at Brooke when they’re at the beach for Christ’s sakes.

“You know she’s not making it to the Top 4. With that runway -”

“Fuck off _._ ” Brooke snaps her head toward Yvie, immediately done with this conversation. Yvie can say what she wants about Brooke, but no one gets to talk shit about Vanessa. “Seriously.”

“I’m just saying, you ready for that?”

“And I’m just saying it’s our day off.  So maybe leave it for a goddamn minute.”

“Whatever.” Yvie gets up out of the sand, brushes off her jeans, and walks off down the beach, little black stormclouds following her.  Brooke decides that the least she can do is steal the queen’s umbrella, shuffling her towel over into the shade and stretching out. 

Fuck Yvie.  She doesn’t know what’s going to happen. She doesn’t know anything about it.

Brooke dozes in the shade for a bit, enjoying the warmth of the sand and the occasional bark of Vanjie’s wicked laugh. She doesn’t know how long she lies there, only really waking up when a very cold, very damp toe drags over her bare calf.

“Poor sleepy Brooke.  Just ain’t cut out for the pressure of television, hey?”

Brooke smiles before she opens her opens her eyes, squinting up at Vanjie in the sunlight.

“You need to pull a Dela, send your fine self home?”

“You wish,” Brooke smiles as Vanjie settles down beside her in the sand. Water droplets still cling to her shoulders, chest, stomach. Brooke feels her lips parting, thirsty as hell.

“That’s a damn lie,  girl, don’t know what I’d do if you went home now. Be boring as hell around here.  You know, cuz you got so much personality.”

“I leave the personality to you, you leave the challenge winning to me,” Brooke says deadpan, and Vanjie hoots with laughter.

“Oooh ,bitch!  You may look pretty but you don’t act pretty.”

Nina and Plastique have gone to track down some food, and the rest of the girls are still down by the water, so it’s just Brooke and Vanjie under the umbrella together, lying side by side. Vanjie leans up onto her elbow, giving Brooke a once-over before raising her eyebrows.

“You undone a couple buttons, hey, Miss Brooke? Tryin’ to drive the boys crazy?”

“Only one of them.”

Vanjie gets that crease between her eyebrows again, that little nervous tell.  It’s gone just as quickly, and Vanjie looks away. 

“Sure, sure.”  But there’s a flush to her cheekbones, the kind of blush that makes Brooke feel like she’s never been kissed before, or heard Tchaikovsky, or seen the Pacific Ocean.  

Sometimes Vanjie does things that make Brooke feel like a sun that is rising. Completely new and so bright she’s blinding.

“Bet you say that to all the girls.” Vanjie stretches out on her back, staring straight up. “Top 8, Top 8, Top 8.”

“Top 4, Top 4, Top 4,” Brooke says back to her, and Vanjie laughs. 

“Girl, I gotta take it one challenge at a time, right? I ain’t gonna think that far in the future.”

“Maybe you should.  I see you up there.” Brooke breathes deeply, drunk on the smell of Vanjie’s skin.  “What would you be doing today if you weren’t here? If you were just at home?”

“Hmm.” Vanjie thinks about it. Brooke watches her distractedly tug on the thin gold chain she’s wearing. “Same sorta thing, maybe. Hit up the beach, find some piece of trade.  You know - what I’m doing now.” 

“So this is just any other day for you.”

“Oh yeah. Definitely. Gettin’ bored up in here.” Vanjie grins at her. “What ‘bout you, girl? You be at the library or something?”

“Sure. Studying. Playing bridge. Drinking tea if things got really crazy.”

“I knew you was nasty.” Vanjie studies her, reaches out one hand. “Look at that. One day and you already gettin’ scruffy.”

Her fingers trace Brooke’s upper lip, and Brooke can’t be held responsible for her actions; she opens her mouth and sucks Vanjie’s fingers inside, twisting her tongue around them. They taste like the ocean.

Vanessa’s eyes go dark and unfocused, and her breathing stutters. “Careful, girl.”

She slides her fingers out of Brooke’s mouth and sucks them into her own. Brooke wants to roll over on top of her and kiss her and grind against her, right here in the sand in front of everyone.  She wants Vanjie’s nipples in her mouth, hipbones between her teeth. The want is something she’s never felt before, clean and simple and deadly as a knife. It shakes her knees, rattles her jaw.

Of course, she won’t do it.  Vanjie might be known as this loud, dynamic, fearless queen, but when it comes to – whatever’s going on between them – she’s just as private as Brooke is. Maybe more so.  Brooke was ready to spill the tea in the backstage lounge after being called out that first time, whereas Vanjie just laughed and disappeared. Brooke was talking about crushes while Vanjie was calling them friends. 

She’s shy.  Brooke’s realizing that more and more, and it blows her mind. Who would have thought that Miss Vanjie would be shy? 

Most of the time it’s Brooke that makes the first move in the werkroom, and God help her she was never this touch-starved before - what the fuck is happening? She’s never had to clench her hands into fists instead of reaching out, she’s never felt electrified by something as simple as a raised eyebrow. She’s clearly out of her depths here, and she blames it on the structure of the show – the pressure of performing and being judged, the long days and almost sleepless nights (she’s dreaming in choreography now, wakes up en pointe.)

“You’re killin’ me,” Vanjie murmurs, staring at Brooke like she can’t help herself.  Brooke flattens her hand against Vanjie’s smooth chest, and Vanjie lets out a tight, slow exhale.  Brooke can feel Vanjie’s heartbeat leaping against her palm, and wonders how the hell she’s going to survive this.

The van ride back to the hotel is some kind of torture. A P.A. takes a picture of them in the backseat (“ _OMG you’re so cute right now._ ”) and then Vanjie takes Brooke’s hand and doesn’t let go.  The two of them are pressed close together, shoulder to hip, and Vanjie smells of coconut oil and saltwater.  It’s like sitting next to a mermaid.  Brooke thinks she might be drowning. 

At one point Vanjie dozes off, and her head tips toward Brooke.  Almost resting on her shoulder but not quite.  Enough that she can feel Vanessa’s breath each time she exhales. It’s making her feel dizzy, stomach tight with (well, _want_ , that’s obvious) but also something else.  Something sharper, like a needle full of ink.  Something that feels permanent.

Vanjie’s hand is warm in Brooke’s, pulse slow and steady as music. Brooke does not let it go.

When the van is pulling into the hotel parkade, they’re jostled slightly. Vanessa grumbles, sighs and starts to pull away. Brooke turns toward her just as Vanjie wakes up and for a moment they simply – look at each other. Vanjie’s head almost on Brooke’s shoulder, Vanjie’s dark eyes blinking sleepily at Brooke.  Their lips only inches apart, and the smell of salt in the air between them.

Vanjie’s forehead creases.  Brooke would press her lips to that spot, if she wasn’t terrified the other queen would flinch away. 

“Hey,” Vanjie says softly, their eyes holding. Something gives a lurch in Brooke’s chest, like a muscle being torn.

“Hey,” she says, but the word feels like something else.

“Out the car, bitches,” Silky shouts at them as the van door opens.  As Brooke reluctantly pulls away, stumbles out of the back, she sees Yvie shaking her head, over it completely. 

As they stand in the parking lot, waiting for the other girls to gather up their things, Vanjie reaches over and takes Brooke’s hand again. Their fingers lace together. Brooke has trouble remembering to breathe.

They hold hands all the way to the elevator, quiet. Brooke can’t shake the constant awareness of each move Vanessa makes, every time their arms rub together, the sudden pressure of Vanessa’s hip against hers as they squish into the elevator with the other queens and the remaining P.A.s. When they get to Vanessa’s floor, it’s all Brooke can do not to follow her out, hold hands down the hallway and press her up against the door of her room, get down on her knees and do anything, everything (get Vee off once with her mouth, and then take her to bed and eat her out until she’s begging to be fucked, and then -)

“Bye ladies,” Vanjie says as she exits the crowded elevator, followed by her P.A. A flicker of something crosses her face and she suddenly turns back around. “Oh shit, I forgot - hold the door.”

A P.A. stops the door from closing and Vanjie pushes her way back inside until she can grab Brooke and pull her down into a deep kiss, sloppy with tongue, noisy and wet and intoxicating. Brooke squeezes her eyes shut as the elevator erupts in cheering and whistling, puts her hands around Vanjie’s waist and holds her tight. If this is all they can have right now, Brooke is going to take advantage.

Much too soon, Vanjie drags herself away, lips swollen and shiny.

“Y’had something on your face, Hytes,” she says as she leaves again, and A’Keria wags her finger while Silky hollers.

Vanjie catches Brooke’s eye as the elevator doors start to close, and Brooke wants to rip her heart out of her chest and hand it over. Vanjie should have it, and she can do whatever the fuck she wants with it, Brooke doesn’t care. It’s not Brooke’s heart anymore. 

Instead she smiles at Vanjie,  struck dumb with affection, and Vanjie smiles back. The doors close and Brooke goes back to her room.  She doesn’t turn on the lights on, doesn’t need to.  She feels incandescent, shining bright enough to be seen from space. 

And then the next day Snatch Game happens, and everything goes to hell.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to artificialmeggie for the last minute, late night read-through! 
> 
> Warning for a bit of sad, consensual smut.

Brock feels like he lives on airplanes lately. Lining up to go through security, dealing with the TSA, bag of mini-pretzels and bottle of water in the air. He used to be afraid of flying but it’s not like that’s an option any more. Sometimes he’s in town for a show overnight and then on the road again. It’s not how he really wants to run things, but he’s nothing but grateful right now.  How many people get to make a living doing this? How many people are so in demand they can’t sit still for more than a couple days?  He tells himself how grateful he is, over and over again, in case he starts to forget.

Maybe he’s feeling homesick, or something.  He doesn’t usually get like this on the road, usually buries himself in a book, or listens to music, or choreographs a number in his head. 

Maybe he’s just missing his cats.

Brock goes to Victoria, goes to Los Angeles, goes to Cincinnati. Brock does stretches in the passenger waiting area, regardless of who looks at him, and prays to whoever’s listening that his gowns won’t get crushed to shit by the baggage handlers. 

He waits in the security line-up. Deals with the TSA asking him what kind of “performer” he is. 

Bottle of water and bag of mini-pretzels in the air.

Takes off his belt and shoes.

TSA.

Mini-pretzels and recycled air that tastes like a headache.

He flies into Fort Lauderdale for his last show in a string of shows, running on probably six hours of sleep in the past three days (it’s fine, he’s fine.) He knows some of the regular girls, has performed here before, and he has enough adrenaline left in him to turn it out on stage.  People are still gagging over his lip-sync with Yvie; the footage is making the rounds online, and thankfully any Celine Dion comments are minimal.

Tomorrow he’s flying home, going to spend a few evenings performing in Nashville, and a few nights sleeping in his own bed.  He is already dreaming about his mattress, and it’s enough to keep him going for a couple more hours.

As he de-drags in the green room, one of the Florida queens talks to him in between sips of her cocktail, tells him how much she loved Drag Race, asks whether he can get her Scarlet Envy’s phone number, pesters him about who makes the top four. She’s tipsy but delightful, and as Brock is about to stumble away to his hotel room, eyes literally starting to close on their own, she asks: “You going to Orlando next?”

“No.” Brock hoists his garment bag over his shoulder. “Why?”

“Oh, I just thought, cuz your boyfriend is there. You know, Vanjie’s at Southern Nights tomorrow. I was gonna drive down just to see her because she’s fucking hilarious! I thought you’d - be there too.” The queen clearly realizes that she’s walked into something uncomfortable. “So you’re not.  Okay.  That’s - nevermind.”

He could be in Orlando in three hours if he rented a car. Or he could catch a standby flight and be there in less than one (shut the fuck up, Brock’s brain.  You’ve done enough.)

“Yeah, it’s too bad.  Just so busy lately.” Brock smiles dully and leaves while he can still walk.

Back in his hotel, buried under the grubby layers of comfy clothing that he prefers, Brock calls himself an idiot while he checks Jose’s website.  There’s nothing about any Orlando show; the queen at the bar must be wrong.

Though the website is shit for updates.

He could drive to Orlando just - for the drive. Rent a car, take his time.  It would be easy to change his flight to a later date.  He could stop along the way at whatever weird roadside places he didn’t think would creatively murder him (the few horror movies he’s seen have scarred him for life.)

He’s been to Southern Nights before, it’s a decent club.  Even if Jose wasn’t there, it would not be the worst way to spend a day off.  And if Jose _was_ there -  if he was there, Brock would -

Would tell him how good it was to see him.

Would tell him it was all fine.  That Brock was fine. 

Would tell him he was ready to let it go. To be friends. Or not friends.  Whatever Jose wanted. 

He would say all this, he would move the fuck on, if he got to see Jose once more.  Just one more time, and then he’d listen to Yvie and get over it.

“tell me not to drive to orlando 2moro 2 see her,” he texts Nina, and then falls asleep like a tree being cut down.

When he wakes up the next morning, he has six new texts.

“Vanessa???!!!”

“YOU MUST GO TO HER.”

“YOU DESERVE LOVE BROCK.”

“Sorry if that last text came off as too directive, do what you need to do.  But also drive to Orlando. Or don’t. Do you want to call me? Call me if you want to.”

“jsdpfijwefivpij I can’t even I’m so happy.”

“Either way TELL ME.”

Brock rolls out of bed, and wishes he could sleep for a couple more years.  Instead he gets on his workout clothing and hits the hotel’s gym for about an hour, trying to focus on the parts of his body that at least he has some control over (his arms, his legs, his back.  Not his heart.  Not his head.)

Then he showers, packs, and makes some revolting instant coffee.

Yvie said he should move on. And he’s going to. He’s going to any day now.

But first he’s going to check out, grab his suitcase, and go rent a car.

* * *

The van ride back to the hotel is quiet.  Or maybe it just feels that way because Brooke isn’t hearing anything, is still teary-eyed and in her head even though both she and Yvie are safe.  Safe for fucking now, anyway. That was too close, and not even a little bit okay.

Brooke’s not okay.

Vanjie is not holding her hand.

They all go back to their separate rooms (Yvie giving her one last sweaty hug) and Brooke sits on her bed and shakes. 

There was a moment there, where she thought she was going home. That it was done. 

She showered before her talking head interview, but she wants to shower again.  She wants to wash the day off of her, wash that cringing sense of inadequacy. She knows it’s okay, on a certain level, knows that she’s still been a challenge winner twice, and her reveal was something to write songs about. But but but (if you aren’t perfect what’s the fucking point, if you aren’t perfect then you’re less than, you’re _wrong_ , you’re failing -)

It’s not true. Brooke knows it’s not true and she’s been through enough therapy to get that this is an unhelpful belief. She’s focusing on the negative instead of the positive and she should - do some fucking yoga or something. 

But she sits on the bed and shakes.

There’s a knock at her door.

Brooke barely has the energy to cross the room and answer it. But she does. Vanessa is standing there in the door, dark silhouette against the brightness of the hallway.

“We got five minutes,” she says quietly, and then the door has closed behind her and she’s in Brooke’s arms.

Brooke can feel Vanessa’s heartbeat through her t-shirt, both of their chests pressed together and Vanessa’s face tucked in the curve of Brooke’s neck.  Brooke finally feels like she can breathe again, and that’s what makes this so much worse. 

She shouldn’t need anyone to breathe. She shouldn’t need anyone. 

“You’re here,” Vanjie says against her neck, “You’re here, you’re still here.”

Brooke exhales unsteadily. “Barely.”

“Bitch, don’t start with that. You were fine as hell out there, if anyone was going home it was Yvie. You see her doing any reveals like you? Nah girl, nah. It was never gonna be you.”

“But like -” Brooke pulls back, looks into Vanjie’s face. “That was so fucking close.  Fuck.  I’m just -” She holds up her hand, shows Vanjie how much it’s trembling.

“Girl, I know.  You think I don’t know? I been _sent_ home, okay? I got the whole sickenin’ experience.”

“I can’t even imagine.  That was awful.”

Vanjie nods, eyes serious but warm, magnetic. “You still turnt it, though. Knew you would, baby.”

Feeling desperate, Brooke takes Vanjie’s face in her hands and kisses her. It’s a hard kiss, maybe too hard, but Brooke wants to remember it.

When she finally pulls away, Vanjie looks up at her.  Her eyes widen briefly at what she sees. 

“Oh.” Vanjie takes a step back. “Shit.”

“I think - we need to -” The words don’t want to come out of her mouth. “Slow things down.”

Vanjie closes her eyes. She breathes through her nose. “Okay.” 

Everything hurts. 

“Like - we have to focus. I’ve been - distracted.”

“Right.”

“And I don’t want to fuck this up for you.  I want us to - to go all the way. And tonight it was almost both of us in that bottom and I don’t know what I’d do - that can’t happen again.”

Vanjie says nothing. Her shoulders are squared, back straight.  Guard up.  

Brooke hates it.

“It’s a competition. I’ve got to get my head right.”

Vanjie breathes out an ugly laugh. “So... what you want me to do, mama? Like not talk to your ass or something?”

“No.” Fuck no, Brooke couldn’t handle it if Vanjie stopped talking to her. “Just - I  - _we_ have to put this on hold. And then  - when this is all over -”

“Right.” Vanjie takes another step back. Another.  Brooke does not touch her - if she touches her she’ll never fucking stop. “I’d better get back to it. Just wanted to make sure you were okay. Say how fine you looked out there.”

“Vanjie,” Brooke’s heart is breaking (and that’s why it’s so critical that this happens now, before she can fall any harder, any farther. That’s why she needs to do this. Even if it hurts, even if it destroys her now, in the end it will be worth it.) 

“We good, girl. I get you. I -” Vanjie runs her hands through her hair, making it stand up at odd angles.  Brooke realizes she’s never seen her disheveled, and it hurts to see her like that now.

“Right. Okay.” Vanjie nods almost to herself, and then leaves.  Brooke wants to stop her with every passing second, and then wants to run down the hall after her - but she doesn’t.  She forces herself to lock the door.  Sits back down on the bed. 

Shakes.

For a while, they pull it off. No one really says anything about it in the werkroom (though Nina keeps looking over at Brooke with sad, shiny eyes) and they don’t act that much differently around each other. 

They just - don’t touch. And if Brooke is feeling pressed she talks to Nina or Plastique, doesn’t cross the floor to check out Vanjie’s station, doesn’t ask her what she’s working on. She laughs at Vanjie’s jokes and they smile at each other when they’re in the mini challenges but that’s as far as it goes.  They’re just two competitors on the show.  They’re just good friends, like Vanjie said.

Brooke focuses on what she came to do, and that’s win. 

And then Vanessa is in the bottom two. Brooke has to stand there and watch her crumble in front of the judges before absolutely slaying the lip sync.  Brooke’s screaming herself hoarse by the end of it, and Vanjie’s smile when she’s safe is gonna be etched in Brooke’s mind for the rest of her damn life.

“Good job, girl.” Brooke touches Vanjie’s shoulder as they’re leaving the stage. 

“Thanks.” They both pretend they didn’t see Vanjie flinch at the contact.  

Brooke keeps her hands laced together after that, and Vanjie walks off to talk to Silky.  Brooke swallows down the shattering relief that Vanjie is still in the competition, and doesn’t watch her go.

And then Vanessa is in the bottom two again.

The look that comes over her face when Ru tells her makes Brooke want to break something. But instead she stands at the back with the other safe queens, and watches Vanessa lip sync one more time.  Her performance is smaller now, less confident, and it’s a close call between her and Shuga.

But Vanessa stays, and she walks right past Brooke on the way back to the werkroom, doesn’t talk to her.  Doesn’t touch her. 

Vanjie’s quiet as she gets out of drag, can’t even be coaxed into conversation by her girls, and Brooke fucking hates it. She knows this competition fucks you up, but she thought maybe it would give a free pass to Vanessa Mateo on account of her being Everything. Apparently not. 

The worst thing about it is the sight of her so shut down. It’d be better if she would get angry, explode or cry or something. But instead, as Brooke watches her, Vanjie seems almost numb.

That night Brooke does something stupid. She slides a note under the door of her hotel room.

After a few minutes of silence, she hears the sound of tearing tape.  Her door opens and baby-lesbian P.A. (Maya?) blinks at her.

“Do you know what room she’s in?”

The girl swallows, anxiously. Then she nods.

“I’ll give you five minutes, okay?” the P.A. on the twelfth floor tells her, and Brooke is so grateful she could cry. She knows this goes against her insistence that they stay focused, professional, but she just needs a moment, just one second alone with Vanjie.  Just one.

The P.A. removes the tape. Brooke knocks on the door.

When Vanjie opens it, she looks confused.  She lets Brooke inside anyway.

“You ain’t s’posed to be here.” Vanjie closes the door, leans against it. “What’s going on?”

“I wanted to see how you were.”

Vanjie stares at her.  Then she laughs, unhappily.  “How I _was?_ Thought that’d be pretty obvious.” She shakes her head. “Funny you wonderin’ about this now.”

“In the werkroom - you were so quiet.  It didn’t seem right.”

“Nice work, Nancy Drew. Didn’t seem right.  Well, lip syncing two weeks in a row, read to filth by Michelle for my busted ass runway -”

“That is not true, tonight you fucking lit it up -”

“I don’t belong here, Brooke.  Okay? That’s how I am. That’s what they’re tellin’ me.  They brought me back, but maybe they shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t say that,” Brooke is furious and heartbroken at the same time. “Don’t you fucking dare. You deserve to be here as much as anyone.”

“And what would you know ‘bout that?  

“I know that you’re fierce and funny and an incredible dancer and I -”

“You what?” Vanjie’s reply has an edge to it. “What are you even doin’ here? I thought we were s’posed to be acting all cool now. I been followin’ the rules you made, I been giving you space -”

“I didn’t want space! I wanted -”

“What do you want? Cuz you say all this shit to me, and then you come up here and you act like I’m somethin’ and I can’t with this right now. Okay?” Vanjie’s voice cracks (ice under Brooke’s feet, ice all around his heart.) “I can’t.” 

This is not what Brooke wanted. 

Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe it was a mistake.  They have boundaries in place for a reason, maybe Brooke should go.

Say something, damn it.

“I know this is hard. You’ve dealt with hard before, and you fucking handled it.” Don’t fucking cry, you asshole. “They brought you back because people _love_ you.  No one gave you that, you earned it by just being - who you are.” 

“Who I am.” Vanjie’s tone is dismissive. “You don’t even know me, and you say that shit to me, when all I need -”

“What?” Brooke holds out her hands. “What do you need?”

Vanjie looks like Brooke just slapped her. “I don’t need _nothin’_ from you.”

It takes Brooke a second for the impact of those words to register.  She opens her mouth to say - what? she doesn’t know - but by that time Vanessa is walking forward too quickly, and their hands are suddenly all over each other, and Brooke’s tongue is in Vanjie’s mouth oh Jesus God -

This is not why Brooke came up here, this is not what she wanted, but she can’t stop making desperate little moans into each kiss, and her hands are fisted in Vanjie’s t-shirt and she doesn’t know how she’ll ever let go. 

“Please,” she gasps into Vanjie’s mouth.

Vanessa’s shaking even as she’s walking backwards towards the bed, taking Brooke with her. 

This is not going to help them, it’s going to mess things up even more. But Vanjie’s so warm in Brooke’s arms, so hard against her hip, and Brooke doesn’t know how to say no to this. 

“I fuckin’ missed you, I _miss_ you, this is not what I -” Vanjie stops talking as her legs hit the bed, and then she’s falling backwards, pulling Brooke on top of her and into a bruising kiss. Brooke’s hand is pushing up Vanjie’s shirt, desperate to get her hands on skin. They pull their mouths apart briefly so Vanjie can pull the shirt off over her head, and then there’s nothing but skin beneath Brooke’s hands, Brooke’s mouth, the body that’s been driving Brooke mad for weeks.

“Please let me,” Brooke begs, doesn’t care if she sounds pathetic, doesn’t care if their five minutes are up.  She’s kissing her way down Vanjie’s chest, down her flat stomach. If she had time, she’d take this slow, but the last thing they have is time.  Brooke’s been dreaming about sucking her off for too long, and if doesn’t get her mouth on Vanjie she might actually die (her heartbeat is erratic, she may be having a heart attack, is this what that feels like -)

“You said -” Vanessa gasps, arching her back.  Then she nods.  “Okay, shit - okay.”

Brooke’s hands hook into the elastic waistband of Vanjie’s pants.  “Yeah?” she checks one more time.

“ _Yes_ , God - Brooke, just -”

So Brooke rolls Vanjie’s sweats down, over her hip bones, each movement exposing more and more skin until at last -

“Fuck,” Brooke gasps as Vanjie’s cock is finally in her hands, finally hot and hard under her palm. 

Vanjie lets out a breathless, broken cry and Brooke swallows her down, eyes closed and mouth watering. 

“Jesus _fuck,”_ Vanjie gaps, hands winding tight in Brooke’s hair. “Yes, that’s - okay, okay, like that, I - I can’t -”

Vanjie’s a talker.  Brooke probably should have guessed that.

The world and the room dissolve into nothing but sensation - the salt-bitter taste in Brooke’s mouth, gentle thrust of hips beneath her hands, pressure against her skull and the sound of Vanjie’s broken voice, gasping, begging for Brooke not to stop.  Nothing has ever been as intoxicating as this sound. 

“Bitch, you don’t even - yes that’s it, baby, _fuck_ -”

It doesn’t last long enough (Brooke could do this all night, could do it forever, as long as Vanjie doesn’t stop talking -) and soon there are fingers tightening in Brooke’s hair, hands pulling and Vanessa writhing underneath her, trembling -

“Brooke, I’m - I’m going to.  Is that - is this - _fuck me up_ , I’m  -”

Brooke swallows around her, swallows her down, and the sound that Vanjie makes when she comes is going to be the end of Brooke’s life, she swears to God. She’s surprised the whole bed hasn’t lit on fire because there’s fire spilling out of her mouth, off her fingertips, all the want in the world coalesced beneath her hands and turning into diamonds.

( _Oh if you were mine.)_

Then there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing.  

The sound of Brooke’s frantic heartbeat in her head. 

The hum of the traffic outside and the world turning in increments, moving them farther and farther away from this moment (closer and closer to the end of it.)

“Brooke.”

Brooke presses her mouth to Vanjie’s hip.  She drags her tongue across the lines of her stomach. She doesn’t even feel the need to get herself off (even though she could, Christ, it would take thirty seconds) just wants to bask in the feel of the body beneath her, the overwhelming taste of Vanjie’s skin, her heartbeat, her smell -

“Brock.” Vanjie tugs on her hair, traces a hand across her face.

Brooke looks up.  Her heart lurches, hard as a closed fist. 

Vanessa looks - wrecked. 

She’s breathing fast and her lips are red like she’s been biting them and she’s incomparably gorgeous, like some sort of bespoke wet dream, but - but there’s something - something -

“I don’t -” Vanjie rubs her hands over her face. Squeezes her eyes shut. “You should go.”

Brooke bites down on the inside of her cheek, so hard she loses feeling in it. 

Then she nods. 

She tries to remember how to get up off the bed, how to make her arms and legs move in tandem. She tries to remember what it feels like to have a heart that doesn’t sting with every beat it takes, like antiseptic on a wound.

Vanjie sits up, pulls her pants back over her hips. She looks around for her shirt but quickly gives up. She’s still flushed, still trembling.  

Brooke doesn’t touch her.  Vanessa doesn’t look at her.

“You gotta figure out what you want, Miss Hytes,” Vanjie says, staring at the wall. “Cuz I sure as fuck don’t know.”

And there are things Brooke could say right now. She could tell Vanessa how scared she is, and how uncertain she is, and how she lights up like a struck match whenever Vanessa is in the room, even if they aren’t talking to each other.  She could say _you, I want you,_ as if it were easy, as if there was no axe about to fall, no clouds on the horizon.

Or she could say nothing.

She could walk away.

In the end, that’s what she does.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, the Brooke Lynn performance that inspired it all: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M84q-fV7QAM 
> 
> CW for alcohol use, heartache, and the lip-sync we all know is coming.

 

 

Brock drives to Orlando. 

He stops at West Palm Beach, digs his toes into the white sand and then dips them in the ocean.   The beach is crowded with tourists (Brock knows that he’s one of them) and he wishes briefly for a wide brimmed hat. He leaves before he can burn too badly, though he takes a couple selfies at the shoreline.  Give his manager something to work with at least.

He drives slow along the coast.  Around noon he stops at a fresh fruit stand and buys starfruit (for some reason, even though he’s never tasted it, it just seems like the thing to do.) He buys some peaches and a bag of pecans too because the lady at the stand is sweet and nosy and reminds him of his grandmother. Later on, when he finds a pretty place to pull over, he sits on the hood of the rental car and eats the peach, skin and all. It tastes like summer, tastes like being young. Brock took family trips through the Okanagan as a child, can remember the fresh fruit that fell apart in your hands, turned to syrup on your tongue.

In Orlando, he finds a cheap hotel and he naps for a few hours (sleep is precious and rare, a religious icon) before he showers. Dresses in the butchest, most invisible clothing he brought with him (he’s got a lot of options and that’s a bit distressing.) If Jose’s not there, Brock doesn’t really want to be recognized, doesn’t want it to turn into a thing. And if Jose _is_ there, well, he’s seen Brock in a lot worse.

Brock eats the pecans he bought (he needs to google ‘How to eat starfruit’ and decides it’s too much work for the situation) and the other peach.  He finds a bar nearby and drinks one drink (just one, he’s got to stay focused) slowly, and alone. No one looks at him.  No one recognizes him. The worn grey sweatshirt is apparently doing the fucking trick.

He takes an Uber to Vanjie’s club, because he doesn’t want to worry about driving. There’s a poster of her in the window, dressed in some sort of bejeweled body-suit, and it makes Brock smile. Build your brand, girl (the smile feels unfamiliar on his mouth.)

The bar is crowded.  Loud.  There’s a DJ playing and crowds of tanned men in tanktops grinding on the dance floor. It makes Brock feel older than he is, and he slinks through the knots of people to get to the bar, squeeze into the inch of available space and order a vodka soda.

He stirs the ice in his drink, and tries to come up with a plan.  Jose’s here. He’s here, or he will be here, and Brock can see him. Hear his voice. Just for tonight, and then he’ll leave it all behind him like exhaust fumes.

The drink disappears too quickly, and Brock orders another. He keeps his head down, tries to be inconspicuous. He must give off some kind of heartbroken vibe because no one has the time or energy for him tonight.

He’s glancing around anxiously - wondering when the show will start and whether Jose will make an appearance before then - when someone clears their throat loudly. Leaning up against the bar, only a few handsy drunk guys between them, is Silky fucking Ganache.

Great.

“Miss Brooke Lynn Hytes.” Silky’s in full face, sickening hair, and a purple-sequined mermaid gown. She comes toward Brock, pushing the people between them out of the way as if they were dandelion fluff. “Now what might you be doin’ here?”

Brock should be surprised to see her, but he isn’t. Silky and Jose seem connected at the hip lately, and that’s good. He’s glad Jose has someone he loves close by, someone so clearly protective of him. 

Brock air-kisses Silky on each cheek, unenthusiastically.

“Just in the neighbourhood.”

“What neighbourhood is that? Last I heard you were up in Canada, couldn’t cross the border.”

Brock rolls his eyes. “I had a show yesterday.  Thought I’d come say hi.”

“Ain’t you sweet. And lookin’ so fine too.” She gives his sweatshirt an understandably critical eye. “The good stuff ain’t started yet, honey, but that’s what it is. Suppose you’re lookin’ for Miss Vanjie.”

Brock doesn’t flinch.  He doesn’t.

“Don’t know if she’ll want to see your ass,” Silky continues. “She still tryin’ to get her head right after everything.”

“Yeah. Things got messed up.” Brock stirs at the ice in his drink, wanting to keep his hands busy.  “ _I_ messed them up.”

“You don’t got to tell me that.” The expression on her face leaves Brock with no question as to what Silky thinks of him, and that’s fine.  Or  - understandable anyway.

 “Is she backstage?”

“Nah, baby, she left already. Canceled her appearance, went off with some fine piece of ass. She probably off sucking his dick in a car somewhere.”

Brock almost drops his drink.  A part of him wishes he had; the sound of breaking glass could’ve drowned out all the other things that are breaking.

But then he hears a laugh across the crowded bar, a laugh that he would recognize anywhere - ninety years old and deaf and blind, he would still know Vanjie’s laugh by the way it raised goosebumps on his skin.

“Or did she?” Silky frowns. “Oops, my bad.”

Brock looks in the direction of the laugh, a group of people that have just emerged from the green room. For a moment he can’t see anyone clearly - and then Vanjie’s blonde bombshell wig catches the lights, and he can see her face. Clearly, for the first time in months. She’s smiling and has some kind of silvery lipstick on, and to cross the floor to get to her would probably take him thirty seconds.

But.

But she’s leaning into someone, a muscular dark-haired guy with tattoos winding up his arms. She’s smiling as she looks at him, as she moves closer, as her lips find the corner of his mouth. 

(He knew, of course. Yvie told him. He’d heard rumours online. He thought that forewarning would take some of the bite out of seeing it in person, but he was wrong. There are teeth at his throat, all of them filed into points.)

“You think she wants any of your sad-boy bullshit right now?” Silky snorts. “I dunno. Seems to be having herself a good time.”

Brock holds his breath. Plays out all the ways this could go. Vanjie hasn’t seen him yet, and her smile is wide and white-toothed. If he crosses the floor right now, he knows that smile will drop, that her eyes will go hard, that her back will stiffen.  He could go over there, cross the floor and have her within hands reach. He could touch her shoulder (Brock’s heart might live behind walls, but his body does not) and completely ruin her night.

But she looks beautiful. She looks happy.

“She ain’t even spotted your ass yet.  You ain’t got to cause no drama.” Silky looks between Brock and Vanjie, eyes narrowed. “Tell you what, why don’t you run along, Miss Brooke Lynn? She don’t even got to know you were here.”

Brock gives Silky a flat look.  The two of them aren’t friends, won’t ever be friends, but they have one thing desperately in common.  That one thing cuts through all the bullshit, right through to the bone.  

“How’s she doing?” Brock asks, and Silky shrugs.

“She fine as hell, what you want me to say? She getting on with it.  She got her girls looking out for her.”

“How are _you_ doing?”

Silky laughs. “Just waitin’ around to collect my prize money.  Baby, you should see me in a crown.”

Silky might be convinced of her certain victory, but she’s as in the dark as everyone else. Brock didn’t know until he got to Drag Race that production films multiple endings for the series, that the top queens don’t find out who wins until the last episode airs. 

Of course, it could never be said that Silky lacks in confidence.

“Will you - tell her I was here? That I didn’t want to interrupt her.”

“Nah, bitch. You in her head too much already, and I ain’t your messenger.”

Across the bar, Vanjie laughs - loud and gravelly and gorgeous. Brock wishes he could capture that laugh like a jar full of fireflies and keep it. Visit it whenever he got tired, whenever he forgot that there were good things in the world, and once he had been part of one.

There’s maybe forty feet between Brock and Vanjie.  It feels like an ocean (but she looks happy. What more can he ask for?)

“Take care of yourself,” Brock says to Silky. “See you on tour.”

“How will I ever survive the wait?” Silky waves him away. “Yeah, go on home, Brooke. We good here.”

And it’s only because Brock can’t bear to see the smile fall from Vanjie’s face. It’s only because he didn’t let her know he was coming, and doesn’t want to surprise her and throw off her act. It’s only because she’s running her hands over another man’s shoulders with those dark, smoky eyes she gets sometimes - that’s the only reason Brock leaves. 

He isn’t afraid. 

He calls himself the worst sorts of names as he gets a ride back to his hotel. Then he raids the minibar and tells himself it’s all for the best.  

He got to see her. She looked beautiful (but she always looks beautiful) and happy. That’s all he can ask for.

Nina has texted him twice since that morning.

“Brock?”

And then: “BROCK???”

Brock wants to drink some more vodka and then blissfully pass out. 

Instead. 

He phones a friend.

* * *

So.  

There’s a music video challenge, and Brooke Lynn bombs it.  It’s not as bad as Snatch Game, but she’s nowhere close to the talent of A’Keria and Silky, and Yvie’s not as strong but she’s better than Brooke. Brooke’s gotten in her head again, hearing that voice on repeat telling her she’s not funny, she’s awkward, she’s letting people down (this is for the Top Five _WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING_ -)

So.  She’s prepared to lip sync. It’s not like the last time, the time against Yvie.  Today she knows with one hundred percent certainty that it’s coming.

And she knows she’s going to be up against Vanjie. The great moment of television that Yvie predicted is finally here.  Give us all a fucking Emmy.

Vanjie is struggling with even the mini-challenges lately, and Brooke is trying to convince herself that it’s not her fault. They haven’t spoken privately since that night in Vanjie’s room (and that was a fucking mistake but Brooke still is having trouble regretting it. She wanted her.  She still wants her. And fuck, it wasn’t the right time but Brooke would get on her knees for Vanjie in the middle of the werkroom if the other queen asked.  Which she won’t, but. 

Brooke would do it.)

There’s defeat in Vanjie’s eyes now, like she’s waiting to get called out by the judges, like it’s inevitable that she’ll be the next one sent home. Even though she’s survived two lip syncs already, even though she’s changed up her silhouette so Michelle can’t keep reading her - Vanjie’s not having fun anymore. From the outside looking in at least (and Brooke is certainly on the outside now) it seems like she isn’t.

Did Brooke do that? Or was it just the show? As the production keeps going, Brooke feels her own spark dimming as well.  She wants to celebrate each elimination that she survives, but she’s also really fucking tired and - she’s in it until the end, of course, but she’s glad that the end is in sight.

So.

Top Five.

They leave the runway while the judges deliberate. Vanjie doesn’t say a word, just walks off on her own with her earbuds in. A’Keria gives Brooke an anxious look before she follows her.

Brooke gets a cocktail, drinks it too fast.

She knows tonight’s song by heart, has danced to it before. She waits until A’Keria comes back to the couch, whispers something in Silky’s ear before raising an eyebrow at Brooke.

“You better have a word with your girl,” A’Keria says.  “She ain’t right.”

She’s not my girl, Brooke wants to say, but she also wishes that it were true. She wishes Vanjie was hers, that they’d met somewhere normal and boring and didn’t have all this extra shit in between them.  It would have been different then. Brooke would have been different, not so in her head, not so reserved. They would have been able to touch and fuck and spend time alone like normal people.  

They might have made it.  Could have made it.

Brooke resists the urge to build a pillow fort when all she wants to do is bury herself, so deep she disappears. Instead, she gets off the couch and goes after Vanjie.

The impossible object of Brooke’s affections is sitting at the mirrors, eyes closed and earbuds in. She looks like a scene from a painting, a still from a classic black-and-white movie. Brooke puts a hand on her shoulder to get her attention (and they both pretend they don’t notice her flinch.) 

When Vanessa opens her eyes, they’ve got that dark, glassy look that Brooke recognizes. It’s the same look she had when Yvie suddenly turned on her in the backstage lounge, all those nights ago. It’s the look she had after the Snatch Game, when Ru told Brooke she was up for elimination. It’s pain and surprise, swirled together like ink.

“You doing okay?” Brooke asks.

Vanessa takes out one of her earbuds and nods, tightly. She doesn’t look at Brooke.

“And you’re ready?”

The other queen takes a deep breath before she answers. “I ain’t gonna let you off easy just cuz you’re pretty.”

Brooke laughs, startled, and the corner of Vanjie’s mouth curls.  It’s like they’re okay for a minute, like they’re back on the beach, that sunny afternoon when Brooke first realized that her heart was not her own anymore.  That it had somehow stretched itself into Vanjie’s hands, wound around her fingers.

For a minute, it’s like that. 

“I wish I’d met you earlier,” Brooke says because she has to, because the words are burning through her throat.  “At a club or something. Not here.” 

She won’t cry, she tells herself.  She can’t cry.

“Well.  What you gonna do?” Vanjie still has her eyes fixed on the mirror, fussing with her wig (her hands are shaking). “Gotta go out there and do what you do best, bitch. It’s what you came here for.”

“That was before-“

“Before what? Before you met me? Don’t expect me to believe that Miss Brooke Lynn.” Vanjie finally looks at her, a hint of her old self bleeding through the armour she’s put on. “You’re here for a crown. So go and get it.” She gives Brooke a stare that’s part challenge, part longing, and all heartache. “If you think you can.”

Brooke swallows around the tightness in her throat.  Then she nods (when what she really wants to do is take Vanjie’s hand and pull her out of her chair, kick down the door and get out of this studio. Fight off the P.A.s, find a cab, go to LAX, run the fuck away. Together. Leave this all behind and start over.)

“Kill it,” she says instead. “Show ‘em why they brought you back.” 

“You know I fucking will.” Vanjie puts her earbud back in, goes back to her own world. 

Brooke doesn’t dare touch her again, and walks away to a separate corner of the lounge. She realizes suddenly that the other girls are quiet.  Even Silky. There’s none of the shouting and laughing that usually fills the air backstage. When they talk, it’s almost in whispers. It feels more like a funeral than a reality show. 

Brooke puts her earbuds in, turns up the volume. She can taste her heart thumping in her throat. She told herself she wouldn’t get distracted. This thing with Vanjie wouldn’t become a problem.

And now the moment has come.  And it’s so much more than just a problem. 

In her ear Sia sings: “ ** _And another one bites the dust. Oh why can I not conquer love?”_**

Brooke loves this fucking song. She doesn’t need to practice; she knows exactly what she’s going to do.

Go out there on that stage and slay.  

Go out there and break her own heart.

(If she had met Vanjie in a club, she would have heard her before she saw her. 

She would have clocked that laugh immediately and thought up a million reasons to go talk to her. If she had met her at a club, Brooke would have bought her a drink and asked if she wanted to get out of there ten minutes later. She would have taken her to the beach, to a bookstore, to the park, to a thrift shop.  She would have wanted to hear her voice and ask her questions - how did you start doing drag? What’s your favourite song? What were your grandparents like? Who was the first person that broke your heart?

What keeps you up at night? Who are you when your paint is off and the lights go down and you’re alone at home and tired? Who do you think about? What were your pets named?  How do you feel about cats?

If she had met Vanjie in a club, they would have talked about Monique Heart in AllStars, and the  miracle of seeing Latrice live, and how Drag Race could be problematic AF but make a queen’s career. Change their life. How they’d give anything to get on it.

If she had met Vanjie anywhere else, Brooke would have still wanted her.)

It hits her like a punch, driving the wind from her lungs.  Vanessa had told her to figure out what she wanted. And at last - Brooke _has_. 

Just when everything’s about to fall apart, Brooke has.

**“** **_I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart_ **

**_but your blade it might be too sharp_.”**

“Five minutes,” a P.A. calls, and the other queens start to get their heels back on, finish the last sips of their cocktails.  

Yvie pats her on the shoulder as she walks by. “It’s you and me in the Top Two, girl. Deal with it.” 

Even Yvie’s encouragement comes off as a bit threatening, but the consistency is enough to make Brooke smile. 

This is it. 

She intercepts Vanessa before she goes back onstage. They stand inches apart, breathing in each other’s air. They do not touch.

(“ _Hi Papi.”_ )

( _“Shoulda known you’d be a Pisces._ ”)

( _“Y’had something on your face, Hytes.”_ )

( _“I like the way you are.”_ )

“Hello, hello, hello Miss Brooke Lynn,” Vanessa says finally and Brooke swallows a laugh that might be a sob.

“Miss Vaaaanjie.”

“I’ma hold you to that Oliver Garden dinner,” Vanessa smiles wide but her eyes are shining. “You made a promise, ho, you ain’t done with me.”

Brooke shakes her head ‘no’ (will she ever be done with Vanessa? She can’t imagine a world where that would be possible, where she could look at Vanjie and not fall utterly to pieces.)

Brooke holds out her hand. Vanjie looks at it a bit dubiously before she takes it. Their fingers lace as if they never were apart.

They’re still holding hands when they go back to the mainstage.

After it’s announced that they’re both up for elimination, Ross Matthews starts covertly wiping away tears. It’ll make for a great episode, Brooke thinks, and wishes that voice in her head didn’t sound so bitter.

“Brooke Lynn Hytes.  Vanessa Vanjie Mateo.  The time has come for you to lip-synch for. Your. Life.”  

Brooke can feel Vanessa’s pulse fluttering like a bird against her fingertips. She’s terrified, Brooke realizes. 

Brooke is too.

(“You be careful girl.” A’Keria’s voice rings from somewhere in the background of her memories.

“You know what you’re doing?” Yvie is scowling at her on the beach, and Brooke swallows down  every instinct she has that’s screaming “NO.”)

“Good luck.  And _don’t_ fuck it up.”

Brooke lets Vanjie’s hand slide from her grasp.  It feels like saying goodbye. 

And the music plays.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to artificialmeggie for reading and feedback. You are a literal angel. 
> 
> CW for alcohol, and alcohol-fueled phone sex, along with a heavy dose of ANGST. Remember, this is only canon-adjacent, BASED on real people, and not in any way an accurate take on things. 
> 
> I've been planning out this chapter since the first line I wrote in this story. Hang in there, there's a happy ending somewhere in this mess.

 

 

Brock has this thing about winning. 

It’s a mean thing.

An ugly thing.

And it’s worked for him, for countless pageants, for Miss Continental, for Drag Race (for most of Drag Race, anyway.) He knows it’s connected to anxiety and perfectionism and self-esteem and whatever, knows it’s got something to do with that gasping hole in his chest (below the breastbone, left of the third rib) the one that’s always hungry, the one that can never be full. 

It’s a - whole mood.

It’s why he hasn’t had any real relationships, just short breathless hookups that ended in ignored texts and missed calls.

It’s why the thing with Jose was such a consummate disaster. Because it messed up the plan, the strategic and well-designed flowchart that Brock had for his life and the direction it was going to take.  Jose was not part of that plan.  A crown was.

And Brock had chances to change it, to back out, to cut ties. He had so many chances and after the Snatch Game - he tried. Like an asshole, he tried.  It was safer for them to be separate; Brock wasn’t so confused then.  It was safer when Vanjie wasn’t looking at him with those slanted eyebrows and soft smile, it meant Brock could focus. Could feed that part of himself that told him he wasn’t good enough.  

Told him he wasn’t enough, period.

If they had been talking much at the time he would have told Vanessa: _I can’t think when you’re near me and I’m not going to put us both in the bottom two and that look on your face makes me forget what I’m doing here._

But instead he said nothing.

He watches the latest episode at a club in Nashville and performs some Ariana for them when it’s over.  As he leaves the stage, he realizes that his knee is throbbing.  It’s an old dance injury that returns now and then (a ghost to keep him company.)  Brock tries to stay and mingle but the pain is making him pricklier than usual; around 1 am he leaves in full drag and catches a cab home. He changes into his usual t-shirt and sweats, and is taking off his paint in the bathroom (leg stretched out on the toilet, icepack on his knee).

Then the phone rings.

When he sees Jose’s name, he almost doesn’t answer it. 

He’s just not in a place to talk to him right now.  He’s too wound up, and he’s in pain, and he’s worried his heart might give out like his knee if he hears Jose’s voice. 

The phone rings. Rings.

 _Fuck you, heart_ , Brock thinks and picks up.

At first there’s silence on the other end.  Then a breath.  Then another.

“Hey mama.”  The sound of the other man’s voice is like a lighthouse. “Weren’t you s’posed to call me or somethin’? I thought we’re gonna plan all this shit, all our statements and - then I get the cold shoulder, what’s goin’ on?”

There’s something a bit more musical than usual about the way Jose’s talking. A rolling rhythm, a slight drag on his vowels.

“You’re drunk,” Brock says, and Jose laughs, a gorgeously painful sound. 

Of course he’s drunk. Why would he call Brock if he wasn’t?

“Nah, girl, just - well maybe.  Back from the club, celebratin’ that my ass still on the show. You know. Everyone’s been talking at me about you, thought I better hit you up.”

“What club?” Brock wipes off his lipstick, turns slowly back to his beige-coloured self. “Where are you?”

“I’m in...” Jose pauses too long. “Shit.  Where’m I? Chicago.  That’s right.  _Bitch, I’m from Chicago_. Where you at?”

“Home.” 

“Damn. You on the other side of the world.”

Brock snorts, peeling off his lashes.  “A seven hour drive is the other side of the world, eh?”

“Look at you, soundin’ all Canadian.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking aboot.”

Jose laughs again, and the tipsy affection in his voice makes Brock squeeze his eyes shut, as if that will somehow block out the sound.  He doesn’t want to hear it.  It makes him miss Jose like he’d miss a vital organ, his left arm, his tongue.

“So.  So. Why did I - oh yeah, we’re planning. Scheming.  Gonna rob a bank or something.”

“Girl, you are so wasted.” 

“I’d be your getaway driver. You know, _Fast and the Furious_ style.”

“Maybe if the whole drag thing doesn’t work out.” Brock’s smiling stupidly to himself, and he catches that look in the mirror.  It’s the expression he’s only ever seen on the show - the ‘Vanjie smile’, small and hopeless.  Seeing it in real life is a bit terrifying. “You can be Vin Diesel.”

“Shut your lyin’ mouth, ho! If I’m anyone it’s the Rock.” 

“Fine, Jesus. Be the Rock, if that’s your deal-breaker.” Brock leaves the bathroom, only half finished but unable to stand in front of a mirror any longer.  He sits down on his sofa, leg propped out on the coffee table with the ice pack balanced on it.  He smells terrible, like sweat and hairspray.  Christ, he needs a shower. “So. Just a couple more episodes left, and then -”

“Then you burnt it down. Not something I’ma forget.” The laughter in Jose’s voice fades. “How you feelin’ about watching it all?”

“Not great.  I don’t know – how it’s going to look, how they’re going to make it look.” Brock was basically moving on auto-pilot after it was over. There are a lot of pieces missing. “What if I, like, blacked out and did that Celine Dion impression again?”

“I dunno if I’d call what you did an ‘impression.’”

“And the library is open.” Brock winces a bit at the memory, because the reads during that last episode were too affectionate.  He’d been trying to play it cool then, make it clear he was all about the show and not just some sucker for a gorgeous face. But watching the edits, it’s almost like he went too hard in the opposite direction.  No wonder they were both fucked up about it.

“Also bitch, I was there that night. I think I woulda remembered if you went full Celine. Had flashbacks and shit.”

“You might have repressed it. On account of the trauma.”

“Guess we’ll both be in for a surprise then.”

God, Brock hopes not. That whole lip sync against Vanessa still feels unreal.  Some parts are so clear they’re like photographs, and others are like kindergarten drawings.  He knows they’re meant to mean something, but he can’t for the life of him figure out what. 

“So what are you going to say? When it airs.  We’ve got, like, two episodes left.”

“Does it matter?”

It does matter, it matters to Brock so much almost can’t put words to it.  

“Yes.”

“I’ll say... ha, I’ll say I paid you off.  Like boxing and shit. I was betting on the winner and gave you all my meme money to throw it.” Jose’s tone is bright like he’s joking, but there’s something underneath his words that’s a bit sharper. Something that sets Brock’s teeth on edge. “Or maybe I’ll say you’re a damn fool who forgot how to dance.”

“Yeah, you could.”

“Or maybe I’ll say -” Jose suddenly stops talking. Brock hears him rummaging around, hears some sort of movement in the background.  And then there’s silence.

“Hey. You good?” Brock asks after the silence goes on too long.  

He’s only a little concerned that Jose may have passed out, when Jose breathes a quiet laugh in response.

“So good, boo, you got no idea. Just - livin’ my best life. You know, walkin’ backwards.” There’s something tragic in his tone, and then more movement. “ _Brock_ -” 

The way he says the name sounds urgent, but then it trails off into nothing. Brock waits for the rest of it.   Waits.  

“Yes?”

“What? Nah, I jus’ like sayin’ your name. Brock.  Brooke. I like ‘em both.” Jose makes an odd choked sound on the other end of the line. “What you doin’ now?”

“Taking off my face. I was working tonight.”

“You get those dollar bills, mama?”

“Of course I did.”

“You got anyone there with you?”  

There’s an intensity in the question that makes Brock hesitate.  

“Anyone as fine as me?” Jose continues, and Brock’s mouth goes a bit dry.  

“No.” He swallows. “Um. Do you?”

“Fuck no. Who’d that be? Ain’t no one -” Jose cuts himself off, and Brock feels something rising inside him, a wave of wanting that started at the first rasp of Jose’s voice on the line.  “That damn lip sync of yours is still all over my pages.”

“Yeah?” ” Brock doesn’t know where this conversation is going, but something feels - too intense.  Too desperate. His heart beats against his chest a bit too hard.

Jose whistles. “Been playing it on repeat just to look at Yvie’s ass.”

“Bitch.” Brock grins, even though he’s starting to feel all blurry around the edges. “I knew it.”

“But damn, girl, you were fine as hell. I remember thinkin’ - watching you dance -”

Heat rises to Brock’s face.  Jose _is_ drunk, there’s no way he would be saying any of this otherwise.

“- like how the fuck did she somehow - how did she end up -”

There is a feeling like electricity running over Brock’s skin and under it.  Through his bones, his veins. He can’t say anything in reply.

“ - with me? Like I get to to look at her, and fucking - _kiss_ her -”

“Jose -”

“Wish I could see you now.  Miss your stupid face, your fucking hands.  I miss your mouth -”

“Jesus,” Brock gasps.  This is not how he thought this was going to go. “I miss you too.”

“Don’t - you don’t gotta talk none, just let me okay? Just let me.” Jose’s breathing is heavy, and there’s another sound like rustling fabric. “Gotta take my shirt off.”

“Jesus,” Brock says again, sweat breaking out over his neck, his chest.  This can’t actually be happening.  He hasn’t had anything but water and energy drinks tonight, he’s not - prepared. He’s entirely too sober.  He’s going to do something stupid, say something -

“You think about me?” Jose continues, voice rough. “You want me?”

What could it hurt to be honest? For fucking once, Brock. “Fuck yes. All the -”

“I think about you, about riding you.  Bet you would fuck like you dance, hey? So damn pretty.  Are you touching yourself?”

Brock wants to but he isn’t, doesn’t know the rules here. He’s hard in his sweatpants, and his free hand has started to travel down his abdomen, trace the fine hairs below his bellybutton.

“ _I_ am,” Jose gasps, “Brock, baby - please -”

“Oh my god.” Brock closes his eyes, imagining Jose on some shitty hotel bed, shirt off, pants undone. It’s like he’s there, right in front of him, almost close enough to touch. Brock can smell his sweat, smell his cologne, wants to drag his tongue up the crease between his hip and his thigh. His hand slips beneath his waistband and he - his body wants this, but the rest of him feels -

“Get off for me, baby,” Jose’s voice breaks. “I wanna hear what you sound like, wanna hear you -”

Brock strokes himself, feeling a bit like he’s having an out-of-body experience. He’s never done this before - sent the odd pic, but never - nothing like this. His body feels overheated, every inch of his skin is sensitive. Goosebumps are rising all over his shoulders, and his cock is so wet, like he’s already there, seconds away.  He can only hear Jose’s rasping breaths on the other line, a rhythm that’s rising. Brock wishes he could see him. Touch him.  

“If you were here - _fuck,_ ” Jose moans into the phone, “I’d let you do anything you wanted, let you -”

Brock’s hand is speeding up, his hips making tiny thrusting movements into his fist.  He drops his head back against the couch, lets Jose’s voice wrap him up in rough silk.

“ - touch me all over.  Those big hands of yours, I been thinking about them. Want your fingers in my mouth.”

“Jose -”

“I wish you were touchin’ me right now, wish it was your hand. I’m so close just - oh fuck, _fuck_ I’m -”

Brock recognizes the sounds that follow. Recognizes them from that one night in the hotel room during Drag Race, his mouth between Jose’s legs, his hands everywhere and lit up from the inside like all his bones were matches. 

He can see Jose’s back arching from behind his closed eyes and it’s too sweet, too much. Brock’s voice breaks as a strangled, foreign sound forces its way out of his chest. He can still taste Jose in his mouth, and the memory brings everything to a crescendo.  Suddenly Brock is coming in his hand, and he doesn’t know how it happened so fast but it’s been so long and Jose’s voice and his laugh and oh Christ, oh my God, _oh_ - 

He trembles as he strokes himself through it, breathing like he’s just run a marathon. There is silence on the other line and Brock drops his head, doesn’t move. 

He tries to catch his breath, sticky and uncomfortable and boneless with longing. His knee throbs and he realizes that at some point the ice pack slid onto the floor. 

This was not what he envisioned when he thought about his first time getting off with Jose. (But what had he envisioned? Rose petals and champagne? Had there been an ending anywhere in sight or was it just about the show and the rest of the timeline was blank? Had he thought about it, or had it just been a fucking dream?)

Brock’s almost afraid to say anything, break the silence.  What does this mean for them - anything at all?  After everything that’s happened, is there a reason to think this matters? Or is it just something that Jose does on the daily when he’s buzzed and lonely?

“Jose?”

There is no answer.  Brock can hear slow breathing, just barely, on the other line. 

“Have you fallen the fuck asleep?” he says, a bit louder. Nothing.

Unbelievable. Brock would laugh if he wasn’t afraid he’d start crying. He says Jose’s name a couple more times, only to get mumbling in response (and a frankly adorable snore but don’t let anyone know he said that.) 

Jesus Christ.  He feels like an idiot. He feels - feels - 

(“Now the real reason I keep kissing you,” Brooke’s heart is beating like a kickdrum in her chest, be cool, be cool for once, “is to get you to shut the fuck up.”

Vanessa’s smile in response is something to write songs about. It’s shy and proud and embarrassed and everything that always seems to smack Brooke in the face, knock her to the ground. 

“I’ll take that.” Vanjie tilts her head and Brooke forgets all the reasons that she wanted to slow things down, forgets how to count money and block out her eyebrows, forgets the name of her first grade teacher and the smell of her hometown. Forgets why she’s even in this competition, and that - that’s a huge fucking problem.)

“Night, boo,” Brock says to the universe, before he hangs up. He finishes taking off his face, and gets in the shower, and tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about the water running over his skin the way he wishes Jose’s fingers would. Tries not to remember anything about tonight, lets his mind go blank and blissful. Lets his body take over, go through the motions of drying itself off, and dressing itself up, and swooning into bed.

The text he’s expecting comes the next morning (well, morning for drag queens so around noon.)

_“Sorry bout last night i was white girl wasted”_

_“Brock im so so sorry shit im stupid”_

_“next time i call you late don’t answer :(”_

Brock doesn’t text back. 

* * *

And the music plays.

**_“Oh why can I not conquer love?”_ **

Brooke moves the way she’s born to, feeling each beat of the song in the bones of her hips.  She’s a fucking performer, this is what she does. She tries to focus on making eye contact with Ru, with Michelle, tries to command the stage and dare them not to want her. She glances over to see Vanjie more than matching her, hitting each beat of the music with a punch. 

Brooke looks away before she can get distracted, crossing the stage and posing where the lights hit her just right. She spins, she stretches, she waits for the moment to make her move.

**“ _And I might have thought you’d be the one..”_**

Brooke glances over at Vanjie again. Girl has dropped to her knees and is crawling across the floor, back arched like a cat. Her skin shines, perpetually glittery, and Brooke can remember the taste of her tongue, the sweet pressure of her mouth.

And then Vanessa rises to her knees, tilts her head toward the stage lights. Brooke’s about to look away (FOCUS) but before she can - 

\- she sees a tear runs down Vanessa’s face. 

Just one.  

Black with mascara. Delicate as a line of calligraphy. 

Brooke snaps her head forward.  She doesn’t - she can’t - she won’t think about that right now, she’s not here to think about that. She’s a drag queen and this is a fucking competition and she came here to win it.

She listens to the music, and it swells, it swells.  Sia’s voice crescendoes and Brooke takes a breath, prepares to slide into the splits and then -

( _Once upon a time, in a small Canadian town, there was a boy who wanted to be a dancer._

_He was late to start but he worked harder than the other students, practiced longer.  This boy had a dance teacher, and even though he worked harder and practiced longer, his teacher did not like him. She only saw his flaws, and saw them often.  She was constantly finding something to criticize - the height of his jumps, the strength of his arms.  And though the years passed and the boy learned to dance and dance well, his teacher did not change. She was never satisfied._

_When the boy left the small Canadian town at last, at long last, he asked his teacher why.  She waited for a moment before she replied._

_“You dance with your head. Your head is in control of your performance. Technically you have the skills, but a truly great dancer must listen to their body.  Listen to their heart_.”

 _The boy left the small Canadian town, and kept dancing.  And he listened to his head, and he built walls made of brick and stone, and he never looked back._ )

Brooke takes a breath, prepares to slide into the splits and then -

She doesn’t move.

_NO_

It’s not even a decision, it’s just a moment and the moment is gone. 

_NO_

And it’s - fine, Brooke’s a dancer, she can turn it the fuck out, it’s not too late. She can - she’ll just - Brooke spins into the music, prepares to fall flat into a death drop in time with the beat and then.  

And then she doesn’t.

_NO NO_

Her body is not moving.  Her movements are stopping (there was a tear on Vanessa’s face, it was black like ink.) 

_DON’T DON’T YOU’RE THROWING IT WHAT THE FUCK ARE_

Brooke can’t get enough air, sees fireworks across her vision. It’s not too late, she just has to - move, she has to -

But she doesn’t. 

She slowly comes to a stop on stage. Why isn’t she moving? What is happening? She can’t even look at the judges anymore, can’t meet their eyes. She clenches her hands into fists, the possibility of winning this moving farther and farther, waves carrying it beyond her reach. 

**“ _You won’t see me fall apart.”_**

And then all of sudden, Vanjie realizes what’s going on.  Out of the corner of her eye, Brooke sees Vanjie stiffen. It’s like a stutter in her heartbeat, and Brooke can’t help but turn to look at her.  She sees Vanessa’s wide, dark eyes, sees her give a horrified little shake of her head, ‘ ** _no_** ’.  

Vanjie doesn’t stop dancing, though, and Brooke stands in one place, staring at her, trying to breathe. Vanessa finishes the song with her signature twisty death drop, arching off the floor with her hand out-stretched (“That’s a star, right?”) as Sia half-whispers half-sings the last line.

**“ _I’ve got an elastic heart_.”**

When it ends, Brooke is shaking.  

Her hands are trembling so much she has to hold them behind her back so nobody notices and calls for a medic. There are applause from the judges but Vanessa is not smiling.  A smudged tear-track still lingers on her cheek.  

_WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WHAT DID YOU_

“Vanessa Vanjie Mateo,” Ru says, not even taking a moment to think it over. “Shantay you stay.”

Brooke hears cheering from Silky and A’Keria, and she nods.  The sounds seem to be coming from somewhere far away, another room.

Vanjie releases a shaky breath, whispers, “Thank you so much” (barely audible, voice breaking) and then is suddenly crossing the stage and in Brooke’s arms. Brooke can’t speak, can’t understand what’s happening, can only hold Vanessa like the world is ending, breathe in the smell of her skin like it might be the last time she gets to. 

She doesn’t know what to say.  She doesn’t know how to let her go.

“Brooke -” Vanjie is shaking like a leaf, pulse racing.

“You -” Brooke searches for words but they scatter like ashes. So she says the only thing she can remember.  “- you want a ring or some shit?” 

Vanjie pulls back, eyes flooding with tears. 

“Brooke Lynn Hytes.” Ru’s voice makes them split apart and the absence of Vanjie in her arms is like a broken bone. 

Brooke tries to get it together. Tries to remember who she was before this whole mess started.  She’s Brooke Lynn Hytes, she was Miss fucking Continental, _damn it,_ she had a plan -

She doesn’t know how she gets offstage. Ru says something in parting, and she smiles and plays the grateful queen, and as she passes the girls Yvie grabs her, hisses “What the _fuck_ did you -” but it’s all like moving underwater. Somehow Brooke’s back in the werkroom.  Somehow Brooke’s staring shell-shocked into the camera, holding the statuette in her hand.

“Brooke,” a producer keeps repeating, “Brooke, do you need a minute? Are you ready? Brooke, are you okay? Can someone get her some water?”

She blinks, stupidly. 

“I’m - in love with him,” she says to herself.

As soon as she says it, it’s like a bomb going off.  There’s a ringing in her ears, and her mouth tastes like honey and thorns. How can this be possible? The werkroom looks the same, Brooke’s hands and arms are the same shape, but that doesn’t make sense. The whole world should be a different colour if Brooke is in love. There should be fish swimming through the walls. 

Everything should be changed in the aftermath of this disaster.

“Oh my god.” Brooke looks at the camera with wide, horrified eyes. “I love him.”

That’s when she remembers she’s on television.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the amazing artificialmeggie for the editing and feedback. How is it that you can break my heart and put it back together in 2k words, and yet I need 5k to accomplish nothing?? You are my UNproblematic fave. 
> 
> Clearly this is becoming an AU because I'm not matching up with the show's timeline anymore. Apologies to Ra'Jah. No apologies to Ru because I'm still not over the Season 10 reunion and I NEVER WILL BE.

Brock is in Houston when the lip sync finally airs. 

He’s seen pieces of it before but that’s all. They played a clip of it during the reunion, and he only took in parts of it. He’s really not looking forward to seeing the whole build up.  

Or the way it fucking ends.

His manager wanted him to host a watch party for the episode, but a brief conversation with Brock obviously made him re-think it (Brock’s hovering on the fine edge of ‘not okay’ and it’s starting to become fairly apparent to even the peripheral people in his life.)  So he gets to take the night off. 

He thinks about streaming it in his hotel room, but then he’s also a little worried about being alone. So he finds a local club that’s screening it, dresses like his usual disheveled self, and sits up at the bar.  

The episode is ugly, a slow slide into a car accident, tires skidding on the ice. His attempts at rapping are about what you’d expect, and Vanessa doesn’t do much better (she’s nervous, though, that’s all that it is.  If he hadn’t been there, if all that shit hadn’t been going on between them, he’s sure she would have crushed it.)

Then there’s the runway, where they both turn it out but not enough to save themselves. Brock watches Vanjie’s face during the critiques, watches her close her eyes and nod (he didn’t expect it to hurt this much.)

Christ, they were holding hands when they came back on the main stage. Brock had forgotten that.  The image on TV re-awakens the memory in him, and the feeling of their hands sliding apart burns against his palm.

He grits his teeth during the lip sync, watches the moment he stops dancing, watches the devastated look that comes over Vanessa’s face (his pulse is kicking in both wrists, in his throat.) He watches their hug afterwards and can’t help but notice how much they’re both shaking.  He sees himself mouth something in Vanessa’s ear and thanks God the mics didn’t pick it up, or the editors chose not to play the audio. He doesn’t know what he would have done. 

It’s a bit like putting together the pieces after a night of heavy drinking.  Some of the things Ru says are familiar and some are like they happened to a different person.  Brock watches himself thank the judges, watches himself tilt as he sashays away (almost falling but not quite.)

And then he’s back in the werkroom, staring at the camera like it’s the scene of a crime.

Brock holds his breath. He wonders if he could hold it for the rest of the episode.  His lung capacity is pretty good, and it’s almost over.  Almost there.  

_“I’m - in love with him,” Brooke Lynn says on television. “Oh my God.”_

Oh my God.

Brock’s entire body flinches, and he knocks his drink to the floor.  The sound of breaking glass is buried beneath the cheers and applause of bar patrons, reacting to Brooke Lynn’s stunned confession.

“Shit, shit - I’m sorry -” 

Brock said he _loved_ him, he fucking said it on television, he didn’t _know_ -

“It’s fine, no worries.” The bartender is coming around with a rag, bending to pick up the broken glass.  “Happens all the -” He stops. Blinks. “Holy shit, are you Brooke Lynn Hytes?”

“I’m just going to - okay -” Brock leaves too much money on the bar to cover his tab, and gets out of there as if an angry mob is chasing him. Oh my God.  Oh my God.

Somewhere across the world, Jose is probably watching this episode.

_Oh my fucking God_. 

His phone is ringing but Brock doesn’t answer it.  Text notifications are going off like mad and Brock doesn’t look at them.  He keeps walking down the sidewalk and when that isn’t enough, he breaks into a run.  He doesn’t know where he’s going, just knows he needs to get as far away from everything as possible. The show, the bar, himself. 

How did he not remember that? How did he not know?

How could he have been _so_ -

 

(The first van ride back to the hotel, Brooke ends up in a seat beside Vanjie.  It’s crowded and loud, everyone still full of energy from the photo-shoot, from their first day of filming, as if there isn’t a hammer swinging gently above all of their heads. Brooke is fully in silent concentration mode, staring out the window at the blurred streetlights of L.A., thinking about her paint for tomorrow. It’s got to make an impact but it’s also got to show them who she is, and –

“Ooops, sorry girl.” Vanjie elbows her as she tries to get her jacket off.

“It’s fine.” Brooke smiles, falls back into her thoughts.  It’s not easy when Vanjie is as loud as a brass band right next to her, shouting into the backseat at a queen named Honey about some show they did together in New York.

The van turns a corner and Vanjie slides against Brooke, their shoulders pressed together tightly.

“Sorry, baby. I’m all up in your space. _Honey, why you say that?_ _You know that’s a damn lie_!”

Brooke thinks about wigs. Short and blonde, maybe, really push the superhero couture. Or maybe bombshell, waves and – but that’s not really Detox. But it’s got to be -

“You sent me a message, you remember? After Season 10?”

It takes Brooke a moment to realize that Vanjie is talking to her.

“Oh. Yeah, I did.” 

“I gotta thank you for that.  I was feelin’ all sad and shit, feelin’ embarrassed.  It meant somethin’ to hear from people.”

Brooke can remember watching that first episode, thinking Vanjie was hilarious and bizarre, feeling sick when she was the first one sent home. She remembers the voice more than anything, and it was surreal hearing it in the werkroom today. Still doesn’t feel like real life. 

“If I knew you looked as fine as this, I mighta messaged you back.” Vanjie gives Brooke a slanted grin, and Brooke feels herself - horrifyingly - starting to blush. What is she, fucking thirteen? It has clearly been way too long since since she got laid. 

“I’ll include some pics next time.”

“I am here. For. That.” Vanjie claps it out. “You can make up for it by sendin’ me some now.”

“You’ll have to wait until the show’s over and they give us our phones back.”

“I just gotta use my imagination. Y’all hold still.”  Vanjie stares at her intently for a moment, and then blinks. “ _Click_. There, real nice. I’ma throw a filter on it, give you cat ears or somethin’.”

“Whatever you want,” Brooke laughs. “Just don’t post it anywhere.”

“Vanjie could you like move over _one fucking inch_?” The skinny queen on the other side of Vanjie – who is... not Yvie - _Scarlet_ , yes! Brooke’s brain hasn’t completely shut down – shoves into Vanjie, who in turn gets pressed up against Brooke once again.

“Hey, bitch, it ain’t my fault I got hips! Unlike some of y’all.” Vanjie glances at Brooke. “Sorry baby. Not tryin’ to get all up on you.”

She straightens up, but – and it might be Brooke’s imagination – she doesn’t seem to pull away as much as she did before.  Her hip is still warm against Brooke’s, her bare arm against Brooke’s shoulder. 

Brooke feels something internal stutter at the contact, like stones shifting somewhere underneath her ribs.)

 

He doesn’t look at his phone for two days.

The first call he returns is his sister’s (“Why didn’t you tell me things were that serious? Okay, I know what an NDA is but I’m your sister and you had your _heart_ broken - no, mom’s fine about it, we’re just worried about you - well, you have to talk to someone, Brock -”)

The next person he talks to is Nina.

“Oh good, you’re still alive,” she says as she answers. “How does it feel to have broken the internet?”

“I - haven’t really looked.”

“Haven’t looked? At the _internet_? Just, in general?”

“I couldn’t yet. I’m going to, I just -”

“People are kinda freaking out about that episode.  You’re going to have offers of marriage from like, governors and stuff.  Tell them I’m single, by the way.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“No.  And she’s not saying anything. Her PR team must be circling the wagons, coming up with a statement.  Making sure this doesn’t look bad for her.”

That stops Brock’s heart for a moment. “Do you think it will?”

“Well, I mean, people love her. But they love you too. I’m sure her team just doesn’t want this to become about, you know, that bitch who broke Brooke Lynn’s heart.”

“Oh my God.” Is this what a heart attack feels like? Brock doesn’t know what else to say, can’t even fathom putting a sentence together.  Fuck, fuck, fuck - everything is terrible and complicated and this episode just made it all so much worse.

“Brock,” Nina says gently. “I have to say - I didn’t know. That you were so serious about her. It was all shiny and fun, I thought, I didn’t know -”

“It’s okay,” Brock stops him quickly.

“But I’m sorry about it. Sorry you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

“I -” And what can Brock possibly say to that? “I’m sorry about that too. About a lot of things. I was kind of out of control near the end there. You should have made it to the Top 4.”

“It’s okay, I’m just going to sit by the phone with my hair in curlers, waiting for AllStars to call. Oh God, what if they’re calling _RIGHT NOW?”_

Brock laughs, even though his eyes are hot with tears. “I’m sure they will.”

“So what are you going to do? You have to say something. Everyone’s -”

“No.  It’s got to be up to her, she needs to decide how she wants it to go.  We were supposed to figure this out but -” He starts coughing then, which is embarrassing but unsurprising.  It lasts too long, and after he’s finished, Nina responds with a pointed silence.

“Sorry, sorry.  Smoking too much.”

“I don’t want to seem critical or patronizing or anything but - it’s um, getting a little self-destructive.  You know that right? This whole - thing.”

(“I’ll be around longer this time, bitch, believe it,” Vanessa is saying in the seat next to Brooke, too close and too warm. “Gonna show ‘em I’m not just a joke or nothin’. You best reserve this seat cuz I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Good,” Brooke says automatically. Then she stiffens slightly because that might have been - _not_ the right thing to say.  The word just came out of her mouth, she didn’t think about it and now she’s afraid to turn her head, afraid of what she’ll see if she looks at the queen beside her.

When she finally does, Vanessa is studying her.  There’s an odd little furrow between her eyebrows.

“Yeah?” Her voice is quiet, barely audible in the chaos of the van.

And Brooke does something totally stupid, reckless and embarrassing but – fuck, there’s no controlling it.

“Yeah,” she says, then watches Vanjie smile all slow and pretty, like someone who’s just heard an awful secret. 

“Huh.” Vanjie chews on her lower lip, and Brooke tries not to look anywhere near those teeth or that mouth. “Anyway, it – is – you know, whatever. Um.”

Vanjie’s the one who breaks eye contact first, looking down at hands that are clenched tight in her hoodie. “Lookin’ forward to getting’ to know you proper, and. _Scarlet I swear to God you’re halfway on my lap, ho. I’ma kick you outta this van you don’t shove over.”_

Brooke goes back to looking out windows, tells herself that this is not going to happen. Whatever that weird moment was, it was just a moment. Crumple it up like tissue and throw it away. 

She’s not too worried about it, honestly. She doesn’t do that sort of thing much, doesn’t have the time for it. And she’s never dated another queen before, it’s not really her thing. Vanessa’s cute as hell, but both of them have too much to prove here. Brooke’s worked too hard to be distracted by the first pair of pretty brown eyes she sees.

She has walls around her heart, anyway, and they are high and razor sharp.  No one gets past those.  She’s not in any danger (she wants that to be true.))

 

“So maybe. Stop it?” Nina says. “I don’t know.”

“I legitimately don’t deserve you.”

“Who _does_? Haven’t met him yet. Probably will soon, though, like on the set of AllStars 5. I’m coming for you, Drag Race romance. Oh shit, what if it’s _the Vixen?”_

“I’ve changed my mind. You’re the worst.”

“She’s a fighter, I’m a loverrrrr.”

“I’m going to hang up on you.”

“You say that, but you never do.”

When they eventually say goodbye to each other, Brock realizes he has three missed calls from his manager, and two passive aggressive emails.  They want him to say something, make a statement, set the record straight. Reporters are calling for interviews (Christ, and they haven’t even see the reunion yet.)

Jose also hasn’t called or texted.  Not once.  And that’s fine.  It makes sense.  It’s fine.

Instead of doing the responsible, professional thing (he might need a new manager by the time this shit is finished) he dials a number his hands would recognize in the dark.  There’s no answer.  He contemplates hanging up (throwing his phone into the sea) but instead grinds his molars together and stays on the line.  Waits for the beep.

“Hi, it’s uh Brooke.  Brock. We should probably talk, hey? About - that. That thing that happened. Anyway, when you’re up for it, give me a call.” ( _Oh my God, I’m in love with him.)_ “Anyway.  Hopefully - talk to you soon.  Okay. Um. Bye.”

Brock waits for his heart to restart, waits for his jaw to unlock just enough to breath. 

Then he goes on social media.  It's all a bit of a blur after that.

* * *

After the lip sync, Brooke doesn’t go home. 

They move her to a different hotel in L.A. because she’s going to be back in a few days anyway for the reunion and the finale taping. She’s silent and robotic as she packs up her stuff, ratings poison.

She isn’t going to write anything on the mirror, but a producer basically won’t let her leave until she does and Brooke wants out of the werkroom so much she can barely breathe; she scrawls “My heart will go on,” barely legibly.  Then she draws a little ship underwater.  

She doesn’t read the letters the girls leave for her. Not at first.

She waits until she’s in her new hotel room, a couple drinks in to give her the necessary emotional buffer. The new room has more of a view than the last one, and she can see the ocean off of her balcony. Dusk is falling over L.A., smog mostly blocking out the sunset, and Brooke chain smokes (not good) and tries to meditate half-heartedly before she can bring herself to touch the folded papers.

In the end it doesn’t matter.  Because Vanessa didn’t write one.

Brooke laughs out loud when she realizes it, and doesn’t recognize the sound of her voice. Of course Vanessa didn’t write her a letter. After an exit like that, what the hell was she supposed to say?

The days leading up to the reunion are like weights around her wrists and ankles. Brooke goes to the hotel gym for hours every day, and follows it up by jogging on the beach. She throws herself into everything physical, tries to exhaust her body so much that her mind will shut off. She can’t think about what she’s done. Can’t think about what’s going to happen.  How it’s going to look.

And she hates that public perception is such a huge part of her concern, but fuck it, that’s how she makes her living.  And now she has no control over it, can’t remember most of it, and is going to have to do some wild amounts of damage control when the season airs.

They send a van to drive her to the theatre for the filming of the reunion. She arrives late and rattled, but is relieved to see Nina and Plastique and a bunch of the other queens already in the dressing room, getting into drag.  It feels good (for a moment) to be hugged and smiled at by people who don’t know how spectacularly Brooke Lynn just fucked up. She has to take these moments while she can, because God knows it’s all going to come out in a few hours.

Soju’s cyst is healing nicely, so there’s that.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Nina says to the mirror, as Brooke pins her wig in place. “I thought you’d be Top 4 for sure.”

“You and me both.” Brooke tries to smile, brush it off. “Hoped you’d be up there with me.”

“So what happened? Can you like, mime it or something? Was it all those burner phones of yours? All the strange men you were smuggling into your room at night?”

Brooke laughs but the sound is like ice-cracking. “I’ll let Ru tell you all about it.”

The Top 4 queens get dressed somewhere else, so Brooke doesn’t see Vanessa until they’re making their way onstage (she tilts slightly, almost falling but not quite.)

Vanessa is flanked by Silky and A’Keria, and she’s wearing that electric orange/red again, a cocktail gown with huge feathered shoulders, a high neck and no back. She looks the best she ever has on the show, and Brooke feels the ground sliding underneath her heels as Vanessa meets her eyes from across the stage and quickly looks away.

Brooke bumps into Ariel as they find their seats. She can’t stay upright.

“Welcome back ladies.” RuPaul takes the stage in a neon orange patterned suit, smiling brightly. Brooke thinks she’s smiling back, but she can’t be sure.  Her face is not in control of itself when Vanjie’s in the room.  

The reunion is a bit of a blur after that.  But Brooke remembers the important parts.

 

_[_ **_Transcript: RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 11: Reunited_ **

_Time stamp:_ **_00:34:18_ **

_RuPaul Charles: Now, every year on Drag Race we know that the queens competing connect with each other in important and lasting ways.  But this season, for the first time in Drag Race herstory, two queens had a very special kind of connection, right from the start.  Let’s take a look at some footage of - what the kids are calling - ‘hashtag Branjie.’_

_[A compilation of Brooke Lynn and Vanessa’s interactions is played. The queens onstage smile and ‘aww’ over particularly cute moments.]_

_RuPaul Charles: So Brooke.  Vanjie. Did you two know each other before the show?_

_Vanessa Mateo: [pause] I’ve talked about this before, like, we didn’t know each other.  He messaged me after Season 10 and I’d seen, you know, photos of him -_

_Shuga Cain: Girl, we’ve all seen those photos of him._

_[Laughter]_

_Vanessa Mateo: But we never met or anything until we did the show._

_RuPaul Charles: So the show brought you together?_

_Vanessa Mateo: [pause] I mean. Yeah, like you’re in this situation where you’re going so hard and there’s so much pressure, and then you meet someone and there’s this feelin’ - I don’t know. Someone make that make sense. Edit that._

_RuPaul Charles: Brooke Lynn, what was it like for you? Was there a spark right away?_

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: [does not respond]_

_RuPaul Charles: Brooke Lynn?_

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: [pause] Yes. There was._

_RuPaul Charles: What was it like having that sort of chemistry but trying to balance the pressures of the show, the challenges, the runway..._

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: [pause] Um. Difficult._

_Vanessa Mateo: [pause] From the get-go, we said ‘we gotta keep this thing to the side.’ You know? Like it wasn’t gonna affect the competition._

_RuPaul Charles: But ultimately it affected the competition in a big way, didn’t it? Let’s take a look at one of what is - I would argue - the most dramatic lip syncs in Drag Race history._

_[The final moments of Brooke Lynn and Vanessa’s lip sync is played.  The queens on stage are visibly shocked.]_

_RuPaul Charles: Brooke Lynn, what was going through your head at that moment?_

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: [pause] I - don’t know._

_RuPaul Charles:  Well, it seems like at some point you made a decision to stop competing.  And to many people you were considered one of the front-runners of the season.  So what happened?_

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: [pause] I - I just stopped. [pause] I’m sorry, it’s my first time seeing it.  It’s all a bit - I’m having trouble.  Putting it together._

_RuPaul Charles: I can see that. Vanessa, maybe you’ll have better luck.  What was going through your head when Brooke stopped dancing?”_

_Vanessa Mateo: [pause] You know I - I didn’t want to see that. I didn’t know what she was doing at first, and then I realized - I don’t know. It wasn’t good, I tell you that. Not a good feeling._

_RuPaul Charles: Why’s that?_

_Vanessa Mateo: It felt like maybe - she felt sorry for me? And I didn’t want that. I wanted to prove that I deserved to be here, you know, I didn’t want to be given nothing._

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: No, it wasn’t like -_

_RuPaul Charles: Do you have something to say about that, Brooke?_

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: [pause] No. She should - say how she feels, sorry._

_RuPaul Charles: You know, during the season there was a lot of discussion about your lack of personality, your being ‘closed off.’ How do you feel about those comments?_

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: [pause] I - don’t know._

_RuPaul Charles: You don’t know, or you’re not going to talk about it?_

_Nina West: Brooke and I have known each other for years and I think that at this point it’s pretty obvious that she has a personality. People were kinda being hard on her, but being a quiet person, being shy or thoughtful is also a personality, and -_

_RuPaul Charles: I guess it’s just not one that’s particularly fun to watch._

_Nina West: I don’t know, you get a bit of vodka in her, and it is extremely fun to watch. [laughter] Occasionally disturbing, frequently sexually confusing, but always fun._

_RuPaul Charles: Brooke, do you agree with Nina? That people were too hard on you this season?_

_Brooke Lynn Hytes: No._

_RuPaul Charles: Do you think you owe some of the other queens here an apology? Because I know you all worked really hard to be here, and then you chose -_

_Plastique Tiara: I don’t think Brooke owes us an apology._

_Nina West: No. Absolutely not. She doesn’t. That’s -_

_Ra'Jah O’Hara: I think she does. If she wanted to go home so bad she could’ve taken my place.  She didn’t want to dance against Vanjie, fine, I would’ve.  She should have sent her own self home Week One. That’s how I’m feeling._

_Yvie Oddly: Girl, come on. That’s bullshit._

_Rajah O’Hara: We all busted our asses to get here, we all of us have friends on this show, we have people we don’t wanna send home.  But we do it anyway, and to see someone just throw it away pisses me off.  It’s how I feel, I’m not gonna apologize for that._

_Scarlet Envy: But props to Vanjie. I mean, whose dick do_ **_I_ ** _have to suck to get into the Top 4?_

_[Vanessa Mateo gets up, takes off microphone.]_

_RuPaul Charles: Vanjie -_

_[Vanessa Mateo leaves the stage.]_

_Scarlet Envy: Oh my god - it was a joke._

_Silky Nutmeg Ganache [standing up]: You want to come for my girl, you come for me too.  Okay? She ain’t deserve that, that’s the fucking tea. That’s some shady ass -_

_Scarlet Envy: It was a joke!_

_RuPaul Charles: Silky, I know that emotions are running high but -_

_Silky Nutmeg Ganache: Nah, I’m serious -_

_Ra'Jah O’Hara: Bitch, this ain’t about you!_

_[Brooke Lynn Hytes takes off her microphone.  Brooke Lynn Hytes leaves the stage.]_

_RuPaul Charles: Well. Okay. [pause]  Anyone else have somewhere to be?_

_[End transcription]_

 

Brooke runs in the direction Vanessa left, through scattering P.A.s, over lighting cables and through the back stage area. She ends up in a hallway, sees Vanessa stomping it like it’s a runway down at the other end. Brooke hurries to catch up with her.

“We have to talk.” When Brooke touches her arm, Vanessa shrugs her off.

“No, we don’t.”

“Yes we do! I need to explain -”

“Explain what?” Vanessa looks up at Brooke and the hurt in her eyes is like lightning. “I came here wanting to show I was more than just a joke, that I was somethin’.  And now that’s done. That shit that Ra'Jah said back there, that shit Scarlet said, that’s what everyone’s gonna say!  I’ma be the bitch who didn’t make Top Four on her own -”

“No. No one is going to think that -”

“They already _do_ , Brooke!” Her hands are moving wildly. “You think I needed this? That you had to throw it for me?”

“ _No._ ” Brooke will swear to the grave that she never once thought that.  That she went into that lip sync with no intentions and then in the moment - the moment she saw that fucking tear run down Vanjie’s face - everything stopped.  “I know you could have done it, I’ve seen you dance and you’re fucking fierce.  _I’m_ the one that fucked up, I’m the one that made a choice -”

“You made the wrong choice!” Vanjie’s angry now, in a way Brooke hasn’t seen since Untucked. “I didn’t ask you to do that!  I didn’t want you to do that!”

There is a camera person and a security guard moving silently down the hallway toward them, and Brooke cannot have this conversation be part of some reality show available to the fucking world. She takes Vanessa’s hand and pulls her around the corner, down another hallway and out of an emergency exit. The door slams shut behind them and they might be trapped outside in an alley for the foreseeable future, but at least they won’t be on camera. 

“I’m sorry,” Brooke says.  Vanessa has her arms folded.  She looks smaller than usual, even in her three inch heels. “I’m so sorry. I know you didn’t ask for this.  And I didn’t go on that stage with any sort of - plan, it just -”

“You felt sorry for me, right?”

“That’s not true -”

“That’s what it looks like, though. That’s what everyone is gonna think!”

“Let them think what the fuck they want then.  Does it matter? _You’ll_ know -”

“ _Does it matter?_ You say that to me - it’s my life, my life they’re gonna be talkin’ ‘bout! Me as a queen! My career - everything -”

“It’s my career too.  It’s my whole life too,” Brooke’s voice is rising with frustration - frustration with the situation, with Vanessa - but most of all with herself.  “I have friends, family, they’re going to see that episode and they’re going to be fucking furious at me for what I did. I worked hard to get here, I worked damn hard, and when people find out that I just gave up -”

“Am I supposed to feel bad for you now?”

“Well, _I_ didn’t make the Top 4.” Brooke regrets the words immediately (Vanjie’s eyebrows knit together and it’s the end of the fucking world.) 

“So what do you want? A thank you card?” Vanjie’s hands are so tight on her arms that Brooke can see her acrylics leaving indents in her skin. 

“ _No._ Jesus. I just - don’t know how to fix this.  Would you be any happier, would this all be okay if I had sent you home? Is that what you wanted?”

“So that’s what woulda happened, hey? That’s the only other option here?”

“No but – I don’t know what you want me to say! This was my _dream_ , Vanessa. Okay? I’m still a little fucked up about it, and I don’t know -”

“I didn’t ask for your dream. I didn’t want it!”  Vanessa wipes away a tear, and Brooke is taken violently back to that moment on the main stage right before everything fell apart. “You can’t put that on me.” 

“I’m not putting it on you, I’m just trying to explain.”

“Explain why, then.” Vanjie pins her flat with her gaze, the way she did that first time she looked at Brooke across the werkroom (and every damn time since then.)  “Why did you do it?”

A hundred thoughts go through Brooke’s head. A hundred moments between her and Vanessa: passing each other in hotel hallways, sliding folded letters under doors, kissing in shadows like they were starving for each other, could never get enough.  Brooke opens her mouth and wants to scream these moments out of her chest, _take them, take them_ , they hurt too much. She tries to put it into words.  Tries to piece it together like a mosaic made of glass shards.  She tries.

“We’re done,” Vanjie says quietly, and then her eyes squeeze shut. 

(There is something howling beneath Brooke’s skin, a wounded animal.)

“ _Jose_ -”

“Nah, nah, I can’t - do this right now.  You don’t even - we’re done.”

“Don’t -”

“It’s done.” Vanessa takes a step back. She doesn’t say anything else, just moves cautiously around Brooke until she gets to the door.  It opens and Vanessa goes inside and she’s gone then.  She’s gone.  It’s done.

At some point, Brooke slides to the ground.  She doesn’t know when, doesn’t feel herself moving, but she’s on the ground just the same.  

At some point, she hears the door slam shut. She has no idea how long she’s been out there., maybe minutes, maybe days. When she finally looks up, she sees A’Keria Davenport leaning against the brick wall, single eyebrow raised.  

“Everyone’s looking for you on the inside,” she says, “The pair of you sure know how to make a scene.”

Brooke doesn’t have the strength to respond. 

“Mama Ru was not happy everyone leaving her set, no ma’am. Thought she was goin’ to flip her wig when you took off after Miss Vanessa.” A’Keria pauses, and then she laughs.  It’s a wholly unexpected laugh, warm and without judgment. The pearl beading on her gown clicks together as she moves.  “Next season probably no one’s gonna even show for the reunion.  They’ll just all be off dealin’ with their drama somewhere.”

Brooke might laugh but then things might escalate, and any emotions are potential threats at this point.   

“Shouldn’t be sittin’ on the ground in chiffon, girl.  Show some respect.”

A’Keria offers Brooke her hand, and Brooke reluctantly lets herself be pulled to her feet.  She dusts off her gown through sheer force of habit.

“You gonna come inside? Or you live here now?”

The thought of seeing anyone else is paralyzing. Brooke doesn’t know if she can manage it.

“Maybe – a few more minutes. Is Vanessa –“

“She and Silk are off somewhere, don’t you worry ‘bout it. We’re takin’ care of her.”

“I’m glad she has you.”

“She _is_ a lucky bitch, that’s true enough.” A’Keria gives Brooke a gentle touch on the shoulder. “But you got people too, Miss Brooke. Don’t forget that.”

From somewhere on her incredibly ornate dress, some magical secret pocket, she produces a cigarette and a slim silver lighter. 

“Shouldn’t be encouragin’ your nasty habits, but I thought you might need somethin’. And – when it comes to Vanjie –“

She looks thoughtful, the way she looks in the werkroom when she’s sewing, quiet and focused while Silky and Vanjie spout all manner of nonsense beside her. It strikes Brooke suddenly that of all the queens this season, A’Keria might be the one she knows least of all.

“You know, some people are better at gettin’ stepped on than gettin’ lifted up. See what I’m sayin’? You get stepped on enough, you start to think that’s how it goes.  So when something good happens, like someone gives you somethin’ you didn’t even know you deserved -  you don’t know what to do with that. It messes with that story in your head. The one that tells you what you’re worth.” 

“I wasn’t trying to _give_ her anything. I know she could have made it without me -”

“Girl, you really think I’m talking about the show?” A’Keria moves gracefully back toward the side door. “I’m sayin’ she ain’t mad at _you_.  Not really. She just don’t know what to do with – all this. It can be a lot to hold.” She smiles, a bit sad. “I’m goin’ in. You take care now.”

Brooke thinks about A’Keria’s words long after she’s gone.  She stays outside and smokes that cigarette down to the tips of her burning fingers and then steps on it, crushes it between the pavement and her heel.  She counts to twenty-five, then thirty, then forty in her head.

She goes inside.

At the live finale, Brooke watches from the audience as Nina West is named Miss Congeniality, and Vanjie lip syncs for the crown.

Then she flies back to Nashville, alone. She feeds her cats, she works, she travels. She calls her mom, she jogs along Cumberland River, she dances at bars with men she doesn’t want.

She smokes too much, and doesn’t sleep enough.

She dreams.

She doesn’t see Vanessa for five months.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to artificialmeggie who is a far better cheerleader, editor and writer than I will ever be. Super grateful for her help with this chapter, and for all the amazing readers/writers on AQ.
> 
> In which: Silky Ganache is ru-deemed, Brooke Lynn Hytes takes action, and Vanjie wears a tie (but not for long.)

The gravel path crunches beneath Brock’s runners as he makes his way through the forest. Everything is layers of green on green here, moss growing on ferns growing up the side of leafy oak trees.  It’s a bit overwhelming but also Brock is three days without a cigarette so everything is overwhelming at the moment.

He’s back on the West Coast of Canada for a show on the island, killing time before he has to get ready.  If he sits still he’s going to end up convincing himself to buy cigarettes, so a hike in the middle of a fucking rainforest seemed like a a good idea at the time.

There are wildflowers pushing through the soil (daisies and violets and bleeding hearts), another long winter behind them. Brock’s been thinking that maybe he’ll go home after Drag Con.  Just for a couple days.  Maybe he’ll go to Ontario, see his mom and sister.  Unplug for a bit before the tour, if his manager will allow it (his manager is still pissed about Brock’s lack of communication around the lip sync with Vanjie.  It’s understandable, but Brock is 100% firm on this.  He’s not saying anything until he talks to Jose. If that means he never comments on it, fine. If that means he needs to get himself new representation, then - okay.)

There is an incline on the path, and Brock climbs, winding his way through pine trees.  He breathes in damp air that would taste better if it was full of nicotine and tar, but - he can’t have everything.  

When his phone rings, he’s almost expecting it.  It feels inevitable that this call happens now, alone in the silent forest, overrun by moss and flowers.

“This a bad time?” Jose asks, and it’s never a bad time when he gets to hear Jose’s voice, no matter the reason.

“No.” Brock slows his pace, stands at the foot of a maple tree that seems to go on forever. “Hi.”

“Sorry I took my time gettin’ back to you. I had to get my head right, and I been traveling so much -” 

“It’s completely fine.  I get it.”

“Nah, girl, it ain’t fine.  And shit, that was a ride hey? Watching it all go down. Thought I was at Disneyland.”

“That’s scarily accurate.”

“None of those fun rides neither. I’m talking like that rollercoaster in space shit.” He’s half-laughing as he says it, but his tone is brittle. It makes Brock take a couple of deep breaths, steeling himself for whatever happens next.  “And that - what you said.  You know, at the end –”

Brock waits, waits.  Holds on.

“I don’t - know what to do with that.”

Brock stays in the moment, fragile and still, where there are chickadees calling and bleeding heart wildflowers and Jose’s voice on the other line for now, just now.

“Yeah,” he says at last, because moments are lovely only while they last, and they never last long. “No.  Of course. I was all messed up then, and I just  - it was the show. You know.” 

He’s playing it down and he doesn’t know why.  He wasn’t in any sort of headspace to be making grand declarations, but the denial tastes bitter in his mouth.

“Huh,” Jose says softly. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear it that way. On television, fuck. That must have been – something.”

“It was sure as hell something.” There’s a silence on his end, and then Jose sighs.  “I – that call the other night. That was not –”

“It happens,” Brock interrupts quickly because  - because the alternative is to say how much he wanted it, how much he needed Jose’s voice on the phone telling him all the ways Brock could touch him, all the ways he wanted him.  “You were drinking and - it doesn’t mean anything.  It’s fine.”

“Ye-ah.” The word is unsteady, broken in halves. “Course. So.  Where are you now?”

“Canada again. You?”

“Berlin! Crazy, right? Taking my ass international.” 

“America can’t tie you down.”

“Damn right. I gotta spread my oats around or whatever. That what they say? Spread oats around?”

“I - um.”

“Bitch, don’t laugh! Whatever, I been up for twenty-two hours, I get to say whatever the fuck I want.”

There are birds singing as Brock laughs. In the trees, under his skin. He feels the melody in each  beat of his heart.

“At the reunion.” There’s a slight hiccup in Jose’s voice, and Brock breathes into the ground beneath his feet. “I’m sorry for losin’ it at you like that.  Everyone’s been – good about what went down.  A couple comments but nothin’ serious.  I’ve had worse, you know? So – I shouldn’t have come for you then. I was just – feelin’ a lot of ways.” 

His voice is like a song that Brock just remembers parts of. 

“You didn’t do nothing to me, Brock. You were – we were good.  When I see it now, it looks good.”

Good doesn’t do it justice, can’t possibly describe Vanjie’s laugh across the werkroom, the rush of adrenaline on the main stage, the thrill of victory and loss and desire. Good is like a raindrop in the ocean. 

“We were good,” Brock says anyway.

“But it wasn’t real life. I keep forgettin’ - like it was a month, right? That’s nothing.”

He’s right, of course, but the words don’t feel truthful.  Brock knows that they’re different people, knows that they were together for too short a time to feel things this deeply. But there was something about Drag Race that moved differently, an intensity to every day that made their connection somehow sharper, stronger, the bite of lime after tequila. Brock sometimes feels like he knows Jose better than he knows some of his oldest friends.  You don’t go through an experience like that, share all the vulnerability and self-doubt and pride and passion, without it changing you. Without it leaving its mark scored all over your bones.

“It wasn’t real life,” Jose says again. 

Brock wants to tell him he’s wrong. He also wants ten cigarettes and Jose’s tongue in his mouth. Want, want, want - it overwhelms him, a desperation he hasn’t felt since he was much younger (living on nicotine and ballet and adrenaline, with a heart that had never been broken.  The superior vena cava scar-free, ventricles pumping steadily, never imagining what would come.)

“It got all fucked up. And it’s my fault –”

“No, absolutely fucking not,” Brock cuts him off.

“Well it ain’t yours. It was just –”

“It wasn’t either of us.”  There are birds singing.  Their voices are all the words Brock wishes he could say.  “It was everything.  The competition and the job and – the timing.  Everything.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Couldn’t get it right.”

“But –” (Fucking say it, say s _omething_.) “I would have liked to.  Gotten it right.” His heart is pounding in his chest. Is this what being vulnerable feels like? He hates it. “I wish we had.”

“You don’t gotta say those things to me.  I can’t –”

“I _know_.” Brock swallows. “I get it. Yvie told me you were dating someone and I think that’s –“

“Did she? Fucking Yvie, course she did.  Dating someone, Jesus.  That’s – it’s not like that.”

“I don’t need to hear about it.” Brock will be sick in the middle of the fucking forest if he has to hear about Jose’s new boyfriend.

“I wasn’t going to share no details or anything. Just – nah, I ain’t dating no one. Single dollar bill, right?” Jose gives a sad little laugh. “So – what are you gonna say, girl? About that lip sync? That I got you all dickmatized and made you act a fool?

Brock smiles despite himself. It’s always like this when he talks to Jose, aching affection shot through with threads of pain, like precious metals. “Yes, that’s basically it. Verbatim.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s like – word for word.”

“Huh. Okay, I’ll get ready for it.”

The wind picks up, and leaves are rustling. The whole world smells like rain. “Are you going to say something?” he asks, not sure he’s ready to hear it. “About how it ended? How things are?”

“Yeah.  I'ma say that -” Jose hums to himself, thinking it over. “That Brooke Lynn and I worked it out.  That we are very good friends.” 

(Tibial stress fracture. Labral tear of the hip.)

“Okay.” It’s fine. Really, it was more than he expected. They can be friends. Brock can be a professional about this, he’s been a professional his whole life. “So I’ll see you in a bit for the tour.”

“Yes you will, sis. I’m not there for the first week but I’ll catch you after that.”

“I’m away for the second week, I’ve got some bookings in New York.”

“Oh.  Okay. Well, I guess I’ll – see you around. On the big screen, right?” They’re less than two weeks from the finale, the ending of which even Jose doesn’t know.  “I'll be watchin' it live with my girls in NYC. You doing a show?”

“Maybe.” (Nina's asked him but Brock hasn't responded yet.) “Can't wait to see you win.” 

“Girl, you as crazy as you are fine.  You think I'm gonna be the first queen in history with no challenge wins to get a crown?” 

“You were the first queen to go viral for her exit line.”

“You’re wrong as shit, but I’ll take it.” There’s silence. “Brock, I -”

Brock’s heart stutters like he was punched in the chest. He forgets to breathe for a moment (Jose has that effect on him.)

“I -” Jose starts, and then laughs quietly. “Nothin’.  I just like saying your name.”

_I like hearing you say it_.  He doesn’t say it, even though it’s true, even though hearing his name in Jose’s singular voice feels like falling through space, cliff-diving, hanging in the air before hitting the cold water.

“See you around, boo,” Jose says.

“Yeah.  See you around.” The pleasantries feel like stones. 

Jose hangs up and Brock holds onto the phone for a moment, getting used to the silence once again.

“I miss you so fucking much.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself. He wishes he could breathe them back in, but he can’t, it’s done. So he leaves them there. Leaves them for the forest to find.

He hikes for another hour, and when he reaches the crest of the hill he finds himself in a cluster of cherry blossom trees. The wind is blowing gently, and petals fill the air, falling slow and pink  to the mossy ground.

Brock can remember Vanjie scattering handfuls of flower petals on the runway; it was the first night they kissed and he walked away from that moment tasting roses between his teeth. 

He bends to pick up a few blossoms from the path, holds them loosely in his hand.

Then he lets them go. 

 

Two days later, his manager sends him a video. 

It’s from Jose’s instagram, just posted that night.  He’s in a hotel room, eyes slightly unfocused with exhaustion, shirt off.  He’s beautiful (and Brock tells himself he’s allowed to think that because it’s objectively, inarguably true, has nothing to do with Brock’s feelings or their past.)

“So I’m here to set the record straight ‘bout me and Brooke Lynn.  You know a lot of shit went down in the last few episodes and I just want everyone to know that we’re good now. We good. Brooke Lynn and I are friends, and  -” Jose holds the palm of his hand to the corner of his eye, blinking brightly. 

He holds his palm there, and he blinks, and he smiles. When he finally drops his hand, his palm is wet. 

“It’s good,” Jose says, smile white and eyes shining. “So good.  So you know, you don’t got to worry none about me or Brooke. I ain’t mad at her, she ain’t mad at me. What happened, happened. But that’s in the past and now we both gotta live our lives.”

Jose laughs, turns away from the camera for a moment. “I don’t know why I’m all -” he says under his breath, and then turns back.  “Okay, that’s it. I don’t know what else I gotta say. Bye.” 

Then Jose waves (Brock pushes all his longing into his stomach, like an ulcer. Something painful but isolated, something that will heal in time.)  He waits until he’s moved onto to the next show, the next hotel room, before he posts a response.

He hasn’t been drinking and it’s been six days without a cigarette (only six? Jesus, it feels longer.) At first he’s going to do the video as Brooke Lynn because he feels less vulnerable that way, but then he decides it’s cheating. 

Brooke Lynn is like armour. She’s like - brick walls.

”Okay,” Brock breathes, ruffling his hair.  “Okay, okay.  A lot of people are talking about Vanessa and talking about me and everything that went down. And I wanted to say something, officially, and then I’m going to stop talking about it.  Because my fuck up isn’t the biggest story on Drag Race this season. It’s not.” 

He should have maybe written this down or something. Planned it out.  But it’s too late now and he’s not going backwards; he forces himself to keep talking (say something, _something._ )

“Remember my sickening runway reveal if you’re going to remember anything about me.  Or remember Yvie dressed like a fucking jellyfish or Silky as Oprah or the return of Vanessa Vanjie Mateo –“ (covered in red roses, petals sliding between her fingers) “or A’Keria, just - everyday, doing _anything_ while looking that gorgeous. The Top 4 is the Top 4 for a reason. They got there and they deserve to be there. So.”

Brock can do this. He can be honest without completely falling apart, people do it all the time.

“My whole life I worked hard and I – I had goals and I got it done. I wanted to dance ballet so I did. I wanted to be Miss Continental so I was.  I wanted to make it on RuPaul’s Drag Race and I got there.  I was – it was all very by the numbers.  Calculated.  And then –“ 

He has to stop for a moment because it’s harder than he thought it would be. He takes a few unsteady breaths, thinks about cherry blossoms. Pictures his cats.

“I’m an over-thinker, that's probably - pretty obvious. I don’t do anything without planning it first, thinking about everything that could go wrong. But there was a moment on that stage with Vanessa when my head wasn’t in charge.  I made one decision and – it fucked some things up and maybe I shouldn’t have done it. But it happened.  I’ve explained and apologized to Vanjie and uh – I’ll apologize again now: I’m sorry she didn’t get the chance to kick my ass on her own terms. I’m sorry that I took over her story. That’s the worst thing you could ever get from this because that girl – damn, she’s got stories to tell.  She _is_ a fucking story, and I’m so, so lucky that I got to be a part of it.” 

Brock swallows. 

“But – and this isn’t very Canadian of me - now I’m done.  I’m done apologizing. I’m not sorry Vanessa made the Top 4.  And I’m not sorry I met her on the set of this crazy, amazing competition, and I’m not sorry we went through it together.  I’m not sorry I listened to my heart for maybe the first time in my life.” 

His throat is so tight that speech is becoming difficult. Fuck it, get it done.

“So I’m not apologizing anymore. It’s a show for you, an important show, a phenomenon, but - it was real for me.”  

The words are true, which is absolutely the fucking worst. Whatever Jose says or thinks now, it was real. Saying it out loud is like a weight being lifted.

“This was – real for me,” Brock repeats, a bit staggered by the knowledge. “So. Thanks for watching.”

He posts the video without looking at it.  Then he paces a hole in the carpet of his hotel room before grabbing his hoodie and hating himself as he walks to the nearest convenience store. 

He’s at the register with the cigarettes in his goddamn hand when he changes his mind (six fucking days, almost a week, that’s got to mean something.) He buys gummy candies instead, and cream soda, and is going to crash hard into a sugar coma but at least his mouth will taste like Vanessa’s as he dies.

That night, he doesn’t dream.

* * *

( _Now.)_

Brooke Lynn Hytes takes the stage.  As she moves toward the audience in a glittery nude body suit, she is fierce and she is fine.  She is untouchable. She is slowly dying of internal bleeding but that’s below the surface, where no one can see, so it doesn’t matter. 

She’s in Boston for the next two days, Machine tonight, and a different club tomorrow. The reunion episode just aired, and people have been talking to her about it all evening, mostly with concern. No one’s thrown any shade at her or Vanessa, and Brooke hopes that it stays that way (even as she knows that the fans can be cruel and vicious as well as loving and supportive in equal measure. It’ll probably break all kinds of ways before the finale, but that’s the nature of the job.)

**_“In my head,”_** Lorde comes through the speakers, “ ** _I play a supercut of us.”_**

Brooke lifts her hands, runs them over her neck.

**_“All the magic we gave off._ **

**_All the love we had and lost.”_ **

The rhythm of the song picks up, and Brooke starts to dance. This is what she does, this is what she was born to do. There are cheers from the crowd, but this time she barely hears them. Her mind is too full of Vanjie, an imperfect memory (neon lights, rose petals, saltwater). Brooke imagines that Vanjie’s there in front of the stage, the only person in the room, watching. 

Brooke lets her heart fall, bleeding, from her hands. Then she crushes it under her heels, spinning and twisting, seeing Vanjie’s face every time she closes her eyes.

People are waving tips, and Brooke takes far fewer than she normally would, too caught up in the lyrics of the song (Vanessa is in the sand beside her, smiling sweet and shy.) Brooke thinks about the first time they kissed, the taste of cigarettes in her mouth and stars in her eyes. She thinks about the whole twisted mess of it, Jose’s voice on the phone, the silk of his skin against her tongue.

They had moments, that was what they had.  A whole love story’s worth of moments (edited neatly, pieced together for public consumption.)

 That will have to be enough.

As the music ends, a wistful fading beat **_(“In my head I do everything right”)_** Brooke smiles for the audience, bowing slightly and waving back at the applause.  

That’s when she hears - something.

A low, growly shout from the back of the bar, a “yeaaah girl” in a voice that she would recognize anywhere.  

Her eyes frantically scan the room but she can’t see anything in the bright lights.  She nods dumbly as the host is saying something that she can’t hear.  She has to get off stage.  She has to go.  She has to -

Backstage a couple of other performers try to approach her, but Brooke just rushes past them, (coming off like a total bitch probably but she doesn’t care.  That much.)  She hurries out into the crowd, where people are pushing close to her, trying to touch her, trying to talk to her. Brooke apologizes to them over and over again, Canadian to the core, but doesn’t let them stop her.

She doesn’t see him.  He’s not by the bar - the dance floor is packed, he could be anywhere.  She turns helplessly on the spot. She can’t find him. Maybe she heard his voice wrong. Maybe she should - she should -

“You okay, Brooke?” one of the staff asks her, and she nods.  

“Was there like -” she begins weakly, not really knowing what to say, “a guy -”

“Um  There were a lot of guys,” the staff member says and Brooke turns away from him.

She could have been hearing things.  Or - it could have been wishful fucking thinking. Or - 

She should call him!  That’s what she should do.  Maybe she’s losing her mind but if there’s even a chance that he’s around -

She walks quickly back to the dressing room, ignoring anyone who tries to stop her, aware that she’s probably looking frantic and ridiculous. Her hands are shaking, heart beating fast enough to make her feel light-headed.

When she gets her phone out of her jacket pocket, she has a missed call from one minute ago, and two new text messages.

From Silky Ganache of all people.

_“_ _Pick up yr damn phone bitch dont make me call 911. this an emergency!!!”_

_“me and AK47 got sick of lookin at her sad ass face. Vanjs there but bitch is running away go catch her!!!!”_

Brooke almost drops her phone. She rushes to the doorway of the dressing room.  As she touches the handle, though, she freezes. 

Wait.

If Jose wants to leave - it’s his choice.  Right? If he’s ‘running away,’ if he’s made his mind up, Brooke’s not the kind of person to chase him down. To beg someone to want her. She’s got walls around her heart and

\- you know what, _fuck you, walls, and fuck you, heart and fuck all this shit, FUCK it -_

Brooke is out of the dressing room, pushing her way across the dance floor, heading toward the front door.  Beneath her ribs, bricks are shifting and falling and smashing onto the pavement.  She runs past the bouncer and the clusters of people smoking on the sidewalks, runs into the street (nearly avoids getting hit by a cab) and cranes her head around. Panic is thick as syrup in her veins, everything feels simultaneously slowed down and sped up.

Oh God, what if she’s missed him. What if she’s too late.  What if -

At the end of the block, about to cross the street, Brooke sees a slender, gorgeous man walking away. There are streetlights and moonlight on his skin, as if even inanimate forces feel the need to touch him.

“Jose!” 

He doesn't hear her so she runs, platform stilettos sliding on the damp pavement, ignoring the stares she gets from strangers.  

He's on the phone, she can hear him talking softly, “Nah, I told you I’m not goin’ to -“

Brooke keeps running, calls his name again.  And - like a bullet to the chest – he turns around. 

He stares at her (there is a crease between his eyebrows, the one that makes Brooke forget what her banking passwords are, what money means, or that she’s ever been lonely.)

"Tell Silk that she’s a meddlin' ho,” Jose says into the phone. “I’m gonna call you later." 

Brooke comes to a halt a few feet in front of him barely avoiding sliding and twisting her ankle.  She can’t breathe right, something’s wrong with her chest, with her lungs.  They feel heavy and tight, full of rose petals. 

"Hey.  Hi,” Brook manages between gasps of air. “What are you doing here?" 

Jose twists his fingers, tugs at his cuffs. "I was just - you know, around. Had a couple days off, thought maybe I'd - I dunno. Come by."

He’s wearing a fitted blue shirt underneath a leather jacket - and a fucking tie? A thin black tie that shines like it might also be made of leather.  Brooke wants to touch it.  Wants to touch him. He’s the most handsome person she’s ever seen in her goddamn life - but he doesn’t look entirely comfortable.  Doesn’t look like himself.

“You’re wearing a tie,” Brooke says because she’s a brilliant conversationalist. Dynamite at parties.

“Yeah.” Jose glances down at it. “Silky gave it to me.  Feel like I look like a lawyer or somethin’.”

“Silky gave it to you?” The thought of Silky in a tie is about as bizarre as Jose in one. 

“Yeah, she said that I should try to look - it don’t matter.” The tie gives Jose something new to mess with.  He presses it flat to his chest, scrapes his thumb over the edge. “You were good out there.”

 Brooke tries desperately to remember how to speak. She could do it once, she swears to God.

"You should have come backstage.” ( _God, it’s good to see you, how have you been, why are you here, why were you leaving, why -)_ “I thought you were booked until the tour?”

“I - canceled a couple shows. It was getting to be - a lot. And I had to -” There is a silver ring on Jose’s thumb and he fidgets with it, spinning it around.  "Did Silky call you?" 

"Yeah."

"Girl's got to start mindin’ her business."

“I’m glad she called me.  Where were you going?”

“You seemed - I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.  After that episode.”

“Didn’t know if I’d want to see you,” Brooke repeats, like - like that could be a reality in any dimension. “How could - no.  Yes.  I want to see you. I was in Orlando. At Southern Nights, when you were - but you looked so - happy, I couldn't -"

“I looked happy?” Jose fusses with his bangs, then smoothes them out. “That’s some bullshit nonsense. Anyway, Silky told me. Said she sent you packin’.  I think she feelin' some kinda way about it. She pretty much threatened my life until I got on the plane this morning."

Brooke mentally notes to have an edible arrangement delivered to Silky in the near future.  She takes a step closer, gently pushing at the barrier set up between them.

“I saw your video on Instagram.”

Jose blinks at her from underneath long dark lashes, as pretty out of drag as in it. “Saw yours too.”

Cars are moving past them, headlights shining on the slick-black streets. The same headlights catch Jose’s cheekbones, the shine of his lips where he’s been biting them. Brooke fights the urge to dissolve into seafoam like a princess in a fairytale.

“Are you in town for awhile or - just tonight?”

“It’s - I’m figuring it out.” Jose shakes his head, looks away for a moment. He keeps twisting that ring around his thumb. “You know that thing you said. Before the lip sync. About like if we met somewhere else, or at a club or something.”

Brooke stares at him.  

“I thought - if you wanted -” Jose won’t look at her.  “Maybe we could try that.”

There is something intolerable in Brooke’s chest.  

Something that feels unbearably like hope. 

“What do you think about it?” Jose asks.

Brooke can’t say a word. All the blood in her body is concentrating on keeping her upright.  She can’t be hearing this, there’s got to be some mistake.  This sort of thing, this sort of offer, doesn’t happen in real life. 

“You gotta tell me what you’re thinkin’, Brooke,” Jose says quietly. 

Say something.  Say something.

“ _Yes.”_

They stare at each other.  Or Brooke stares at Jose while he stares at his hands.

“Yes,” she says again. “I mean, okay.  We could try that.”

Jose lifts his eyes at last and they are beautiful (and soft and scared and hungry.) “So like if you met me tonight, at this club or whatever, what’d we do now? What’d you say to me?”

Brooke takes a step forward. Then another. She looms over him in her heels, but she moves slowly, giving him no doubt about what she’s going to do next.  When she’s right up in his space, she touches his chin (she did that once in the backstage lounge and it feels like years ago and it feels like yesterday) tilting his head back.

Then she kisses him. 

As kisses go, it’s in the Top Three of her life.

(Number Three: Vanessa Vanjie Mateo, night of the “What’s Your Sign” runway, tasting like mint and still glittery.  The kiss that started a war, sunk a battleship, peeled away all the layers of Brooke’s dried up onion heart. A mistake and a reckoning and a miracle all at the same time. 

Number Two: first kiss with a boy.  Whatever, he’s straight and has kids now and they were both too drunk to function.  Still. It was good at the time.

Number One: remember that blank space at the beginning? Here we are children: Jose on the sidewalk, hands on her face, mouth open. Finally where he’s supposed to be, close enough to touch, lighting Brooke up like birthday candles. There a faint trace of stubble on Jose’s upper lip and she licks it, wants to taste it, wants to touch everything.  Her hands slide into Jose’s hair, cradling his head as they kiss.  Brooke’s starving, wants everything all at once and the soft little murmuring noises Jose is making against her mouth make Brooke Lynn fucking shine.)

“I’d say,” Brooke breathes, pulling back, “that I’m in love with you.  Then I’d ask you to come home with me.”

Jose doesn’t move. Doesn’t say a word for a moment.  There’s a little crease of pain between his eyebrows and his lips shine with Brooke’s lipgloss. 

Then he smiles.

“Girl, we just met. You move fast.” And then, softer, “Okay. We can try that.”

“My wallet’s in the club,” Brooke says stupidly because her heart is racing and this cannot possibly be real.  “I have to - will you wait here? Don’t -”

“I’ll get us a cab.”

“Okay. Don’t go, though, you’ll -”

“Yeah right, you think I’m going anywhere now? Now that I get to take you home? Come on, mama, you know me.”

I _do,_ Brooke thinks, even though - really - she only knows parts of him. But se wants to know the rest.  And she’s going to know the rest, she decides, every question that she has, every stupid thought Jose has had in his beautiful weird brain.

She gets changed in the dressing room, back into boy clothes. Fuck you if she’s going to sit next to the sexiest man in the world on a cab ride across Boston while tucked. No thank you, Mary. 

When the last makeup wipe hits the trash can, Brock looks up and sees himself in the mirror. Still in desperate need of a shower, grey toque pulled low on his head, but himself.  No armour.

He looks happy, and that’s fucking terrifying.  His face is doing that thing it does around Vanjie, the thing he’s only seen on television. 

Jose is waiting for him when he gets back outside. Brock feels his face pull into that expression, helplessly. 

They barely make it to the hotel room (they don’t make it to the bed.)

“Get your fucking shirt off,” Brock gasps against Jose’s neck, the two of them grinding on the floor against each other.  How the fuck did they end up on the floor, last thing Brock knew they were pressed against the wall.

The hotel carpet is rough on Brock’s knees, and will probably be rougher on Jose’s back, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  He pulls his shirt up over his head, doesn’t bother with the rest of the buttons, and makes a moan of frustration when it means they can’t kiss for a second.  He throws it off, pushes it aside.  His mouth on Brock’s is wet and sharp, his fingers on the zipper of Brock’s hoodie.

“I want you in me,” he says against Brock’s teeth, “Okay? Been waiting too long for you. I can’t -”

“Jesus Christ.” Brock has his fingers on the buttons of Jose’s pants, pulls them off his hips along with his underwear, pressing biting kisses to his hipbones, his stomach.

“You don’t gotta -” Jose starts and then Brock is sucking his cock, swallowing him down and it’s familiar and unfamiliar and so fucking hot he might die.  “Oh my God, yes -

Too soon, Jose is pulling on his hair. “I’m going to come if you - get up here, please -”

Brock pulls off slowly, kisses his way up Jose’s body, feverish and dizzy with all the promise of a night alone together. He licks into Jose’s mouth, and he’s trying to go slow but it’s impossible to take his time when their skin feels this electric, when Brock’s been basically half-hard for him since he was dressed like a sparkly Mountie and trying not to stare at the most beautiful girl in the room.

“My jacket,” Jose waves an elegant hand toward the sofa where he’s thrown it over an arm. “There’s -”

Brock speaks the same language, and he forces himself to his feet so he can grab the leather jacket, rummage in its pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

“Someone came prepared,” he says, crawling back over to Jose, condoms and lube packet in hand.

“No one’s come at all, ho. If you don’t hurry up about fixing that -”

“Pushy,” Brock mumbles. He slicks his fingers and spreads Jose’s thighs; he can’t stop moving or he’ll start thinking  and this will be over too quickly.

“You love - _oh.”_ Jose’s voice shatters and his head drops back at the first touch of Brock’s hand. Brock fingers him slowly, letting the pads of his fingertips drag inside Jose’s body, watching his  cock twitch slightly every time Brock hits the right place. He could do this all night. He rests his head on Jose’s thigh, watching for every reaction he makes, every time his chest flutters, ever gasp that breaks from his mouth. Two fingers become three, Brock twisting his wrist until Jose’s legs are spread as far as they can go, one hand covering his face and the other making small, clenching movements on the shitty hotel carpet.

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Jose bites out, back arching. “I can’t - you gotta - Brock, please -”

“I will.” But it’s too delicious to watch Jose writhe like this, and Brock takes his time, kissing the inside of one knee and then the other before sliding his fingers free. He licks the pre-come off Jose’s stomach and then sits back on his knees, opening the condom and rolling it on (biting his lip to give himself edges, to haul himself back from this cliff.)

“You okay like this?” Brock leans over Jose for a kiss, and Jose immediately wraps his legs around Brock’s waist, pulling him closer.

“Yes, damn it, If you don’t hurry the fuck up I’m going back to that club to find a bitch who -”

His sentence ends in a bitten-off moan, as Brock pushes into him, a slow hot glide that makes Brock slam his eyes shut.  It’s too good. Too much. This is the worst possible decision Brock could have made because being inside Jose is better than anything and Brock has an addictive personality.  He’s already aching from it - so, so utterly fucked.

“Okay?” he asks with another thrust, and Jose just nods, mouth open and eyes blown black. Brock leans down to kiss him, and then Jose’s nails are scraping down his back, and his hips are rising to meet Brock’s, and everything is speeding up, turning hungry and vicious with wanting.

“Jesus, _Jesus_ ,” Brock hisses and he’s had sex before but it wasn’t like this, nothing’s ever been like this. “You’re -”

Jose tightens his legs, drawing him in closer, and making the sexiest sounds Brock’s ever heard in his life. 

“Come on baby, get me there,” Jose leans up to whisper in his ear. “Know you can, know you got it -”

Brock pulls back slightly to change angles, pulling one of Jose’s legs up over his shoulder before thrusting back inside. Jose smacks the ground, shouts, swears - it’s a bit like fucking a tornado, or a hurricane. 

“Come _on,_ ” Jose begs, “You have to just - _there,_ baby, _there -”_

Brock tries to repeat the movement that’s making Jose throw his head back like that, and he’s close, he’s fucking close, and then they’re grabbing at each other and Jose is moaning and coming between their bodies (“Yeah, fuck my - oh Jesus Brock I can’t - oh GOD -”.) Brock’s suddenly there, suddenly gone, and he fucks Jose through it, shaking, sweat rolling down his neck. Then he swoons down on top of the smaller man, kissing his mouth and his eyes, licking the come off his chest, dragging his tongue down and down and down Jose’s stomach until he can’t stop, he’s fucking lost again.

They end up in the bed at some point. Brock sleeps like he hasn’t in years, a black and weightless sleep, only waking at the sensation of slow patterns being traced down his spine (words in Spanish that Jose will translate for him someday, but not now). He rolls over to see Jose’s face only inches from his own, and thanks the God of his distant religious childhood that this is still happening.  Still real.

Their lips find each other in the half-darkness, hands moving soft over ribs and hips, between legs. Jose nudges Brock on to his back, rolls a condom on him before riding him excruciatingly slowly, still loose and open from their first time.  

“Had to get you up.  Was dreamin’ about this.”

Jose pins Brock’s hands to the bed-frame above him, moving his hips like a dancer.

“Open your eyes,” Jose says, and Brock didn’t even realize he had closed them. “Want you lookin‘ at me. Don’t need you thinking about no other ho.”  

Brock opens them briefly before squeezing them shut again.  The feeling is too intense for him to get distracted by something as unnecessary as _sight_ and the way Jose’s body moves over him might make him go blind. He’s too close, it’s too much -

“You’re here,” Jose whispers, pressing his mouth to Brock’s temple. “Open your eyes.” 

Brock does.

They don’t leave the hotel room until the next evening - well, basically they don’t leave the bed. Except for the couch.  And once, the shower. 

Jose comes to the club, watches as Brooke performs “God is a Woman” and throws dollar bills at her like they’re confetti.  Afterwards they make out like teenagers in the dressing room, pressed up against the mirrors until Jose has lipstick and powder smeared all over his face. Jose grabs at Brooke’s hips like they’re real, sucks her fingers and bites her palm, whispers all sorts of filthy promises to the lines on her hands (lifeline, loveline, Mount of Venus.)

When they finally break apart, Jose’s eyes are wild and unfocused. Brooke holds his face between her hands, presses their foreheads together, wondering whether it’s possible to feel this much and survive.

“Come to New York with me,” Jose says quietly.  “For the finale. I want you there.”

“I -”

“Don’t get all in your feelings about it. You don’t got nothing lined up yet.  Come with me.” Jose licks his lips and then smiles. “Love the taste of your gloss, baby. Look at your face - you know you’re gonna say yes.”

Brooke is.  She is.

She does.

 


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here we are at the end. Turns out that a couple hundred word one-off can actually turn into over 35k when you are obsessed enough. As always I have to thank the perfection that is artificialmeggie for being there for this fic from the start, as well as writing the story that inspired it (the incredible "Paper Hearts" which I'm going to go read now for the hundredth time and I recommend you do the same.) I also want to thank the readers on AQ and the Branjie Discord and all of you that have left comments, kudos, cheered me on. This is story is yours, it wouldn't have happened otherwise. 
> 
> Come scream about your drag race feelings on tumblr with me (mia-ugly) or don't. Either way, thanks for the ride.

 

They go to New York for the finale. 

Brock loves this city. It’s full of shiny, awful memories that makes him feel young and stupid again.  He likes it even better with Jose at his side, swaggering along in his neck scarf looking kissable as hell.

If they had more time, Brock would take Jose to his old neighbourhood, see if that amazing vintage store was still open down the street from his apartment. Show him the dance studio where he spent his youth instead of going out to clubs and hooking up and sleeping in.

Next time, Brock tells himself, and the thought makes something warm pulse beneath his ribs.

“Girl, stop it.”

“Stop what?” They’re on the train to the club, both of them weighted down with suitcases and duffle bags.

“Looking at me like - don’t front, you know what your face is doing!”

“No. Show me.”

“Nah! So you can laugh at me? No ma’am.”

They have only spent one night apart for the past week.  Jose has followed Brock to gigs, to clubs, to hotel rooms. He hasn’t met the cats yet, but he will.  Someday (and that word is so heartbreakingly sweet that it almost makes Brock slide onto the floor of the subway.  Which he doesn’t because that would be revolting but - almost.)

He knows it won’t last, of course.  This time together, this closeness. After the finale there are shows that Jose can’t get out of, but then they’ll be at Drag Con together, and then they’ll be touring.  Brock can see the future, or the next few months anyway, and he sees Jose standing beside him.  He sees Vanessa with gold glitter all the way from her throat to her naval, because she’s got no judges to placate anymore. He sees them having drinks in bars in France, Australia, Canada (Brock’s going to get her poutine and she’s going to lose her damn mind.)

After that - they’ll figure it out.  It’s too hard to think about how they’ll make this work once they’re both on the road, doing their own thing in different parts of the world, only connected by lines on a map.  Brock’s never done the long-distance relationship thing before.  

He’s never done the relationship thing before, period.

“You good, boo?” Jose’s looking at him, warmth and worry in his eyes.

Brock pushes his insecurities somewhere else. Enjoy this while it lasts (he tell himself that he doesn’t hear a clock ticking softly in the background, counting down the time until it all falls the fuck apart -)

“So good.” (Don’t go there, not now.)

They kiss then, because it’s New York fucking City, and Brock isn’t willing to hide this feeling in the shadows.  Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t think it would work; when he looks at Jose, he shines too brightly. “Nervous about tonight?”

“Ha, no way. I ain’t goin’ in with no expectations whatsoever. It’s just another night.”

“Whatever you say.” Brock is less anxious about the winner, more anxious about watching the episode, looking at his shell-shocked face in the audience.  Everything was so fresh and impossible then, he felt like he was just going through the motions of a living human being. Step. Step. Breathe. Blink. 

From the nervous way Jose’s chewing on his lip, Brock knows that he’s thinking about it too.

There wasn’t even a definite Top Two after the finale. Ru did a weird lip-sync round robin and filmed four crowning ceremonies, so no one is clear on who the winner is going to be. Brock doesn’t know how he feels about seeing Yvie and Silky and everyone tonight - he’s maybe the most anxious about A’Keria because of that disgustingly vulnerable conversation they had after the reunion - but he’d rather be with Jose than anywhere else in the world. So what if his friends are a bit - extroverted for Brock at times? It’s worth it just to hold his hand.  

Brock rolls his eyes at himself; who knew he would be so soft and pathetic in love? (It was obvious to anyone that halfway knew him, clear to everyone but himself.)

When they get to Lips, Brock sits in the dressing room and watches Jose turn into Vanessa. It’s a process he’s seen hundreds of times before, but it’s - kind of sexy? When it’s Jose? (God, he is never going to tell anyone that, he’s going to take this feeling to the grave.)  The focus Jose has when he’s painting, staring in the mirror as intently as any other artist, it makes Brock feel a bit light-headed.  He watches in silence as Jose blocks out his eyebrows, paints them on, blends his contour, lines his lips. 

“Girl, stop it,” Jose says, concentration breaking. “You keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna have to lock this door.”

Heat rushes to Brock’s face, his chest, his stomach. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Jose smiles wide into the mirror, and Brock’s hands clench into fists because how does anyone feel this happy without their heart giving out?

That’s about when Silky kicks the door in (“Y’all order some strippers?!”), A’Keria following close behind. It’s too loud to say a word for the next half-hour or so over the shrieking and laughter of the three of them, so Brock moves to the other side of the room, watches from the sidelines. No one acts surprised to see him, no one pays him any attention whatsoever (aside from one flat and assessing stare from Silky that lasts a little too long). Brock checks his phone, responds to some messages, shoots hot quiet looks over at Jose every time the other man glances at him. 

Yvie shows up late, halfway made up.  She’s quiet as she slinks into the room and winces a bit when she sees Silky but is polite enough.  She unpacks her kit next to Brock, slightly apart from the gorgeous chaos of the Dream Girls.

Brock finds himself feeling genuinely happy to see her, the weirdest thing that’s happened to him today.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, and Yvie rolls her eyes at him.

“You really care, or you just want a lead in so you can tell me what you’re doing here?” Yvie glances over her shoulder at the sound of Vanjie’s laughter. “Like it isn’t obvious.”

“ _You’re_ obvious,” Brock retorts, feeling altogether too content to make any sense.

“Oh my god,” Yvie groans, “I thought it was bad before.  But you’re going to be unbearable now, aren’t you? Like full-on puppies on a honeymoon bullshit. I might be sick.”

“Don’t be jealous, girl. Love is a beautiful thing.” Brock goes in for a fake hug and Yvie smacks his hands away. "A beautiful, natural -"

“Gross, get off.  I’m not Vanjie.”

“Someone say my name?” Jose has disappeared, and Vanessa has taken his place (dressed in gold sequins, red glossed lips and huge feathery lashes.) “Brooke, you watch those hands, baby.”

“Yes, papi,” Brock gives her a wink while beside him Yvie mimes throwing up.

The smile Vanjie gives him in return is slow to spread, and sexy as hell.  That girl puts her whole heart into her smile, and it makes Brock ache.  It makes Brock forget that there’s anyone else in the world, or the city, or the dressing room.

“What you gonna do while we watch the show, Miss Brooke Lynn?” Silky notices the direction of Vanjie’s stare. “We already gonna have four bitches in the green room. That’s too many bitches!”

The four finalists are hosting a Q&A after the winner is revealed but they’ll be watching the show backstage, with a single camera to capture the winner’s reaction. 

“Nah, she coming in with us,” Vanjie says, “Can’t make it through all your bullshit without my jush.”

A’Keria smiles brightly into the mirrors and she smacks Silky’s arm before the other queen can open up her mouth to respond.

“Leave ‘em alone.  Just because your ass ain’t got a man right now -”

“I ain’t got _a_ man, no.  They’re lining up, honey. All ‘round the block for a piece of this.”

“What about you, Miss Yvie?” A’Keria calls across the room.

Yvie flinches.  Then disturbingly enough, she blushes. Brock doesn’t think he’s ever seen her blush before. It makes her look a lot younger (she _is_ young, though. With all her sharp edges, it can be easy to forget that.)

“What about what,” she mumbles.

“You got someone lining up for you?”

_“No_.” Yvie’s eyes flash angrily to Brock as if daring him to contradict her.

“What’s your judy Scarlet up to these days?” A’Keria continues, painfully nonchalant.

“ _I_ don’t know,” Yvie says flatly, face going so red her skin is almost purple. 

Both A’Keria and Silky stare at her for a beat - before their mouths open in matching screams. 

“She bangin’ Scarlet!” Silky shouts, “Yass girl, get that D!”

“Aw, they're comin’ for your merch money, Branjie!” A’Keria spanks Silky’s ass. “And this bitch owes me twenty dollars now, bet she thought I’d forget.”

“Shut up.” Yvie’s voice is hard, but there’s a pleased little curve to her lips.  “You don’t even - whatever.”

It’s basically adorable, and Brock wants to say so (before Yvie’s deadly look makes him re-think mentioning anything ever again.)

They’re led to the green room by a tattooed server who could be in the Pit Crew.  He takes a drink order before he leaves, and A’Keria watches him go with raised eyebrows. The room itself is tiny, with one couch that all four finalists will definitely not fit on, and the production team runs off to find more chairs. Brock hangs back, off in a corner while the Dream Girls hassle each other on the couch and Yvie floats nervously around the room. Brock’s not in drag tonight, and the cameras won’t be on him. He was fully prepared to wait out by the bar, but if Vanessa wants him then he’s here. Simple as that (plus the the thought of watching the episode without her is a little terrifying. He wants to see her face through all of it, remind himself that no matter what came before, this is where they are now.)

“Girl, something is stabbing at me.  Can you see what’s up with this zipper?” Yvie comes over to him, holding up her bizarre seaweed wig, and Brock tries to help.  He’s half-listening to her, and half-listening to the conversation between Vanjie and Silky that has suddenly gotten much more intense. Vanjie’s voice is basically inaudible, but Silky has no inside voice and absolutely no chill, so all Brock can make out is one side of it.

“Naw, you had that when we sent your sad ass to Boston! What you still doing with it? Thought you was going to –”

Again Vanjie says something, and Brock briefly glances at her over Yvie’s shoulder.

“You’re triflin,’ ho. I’m gonna do it for you, you so scared.” Silky raises her voice even more. “Brock, hey _Miss Brooke Lynn_ –”

“Stop it,” Vanessa says sharply. “Serious, Silk.”

“What’s up?” Brock abandons Yvie (after she waves him away, clearly aware that he’s distracted.) 

“Miss Thing over here needs to step her pussy up,” Silky says, and Vanjie glares at her.

“Silk, shut the fuck up.”

“I’m looking out for your best interests, ho.” Silky grins.  “Miss Brooke Lynn -”

Vanjie stops her by getting off the couch and dragging Brock out of the green room. Silky starts clapping in the background, but Vanjie closes the door behind them, pulling Brock down the hallway.  A couple servers and P.A.s are moving quickly around them, setting up for the show, and Vanjie backs Brock up against the wall, standing close and speaking so soft that Brock has to lean into her.

“I ain’t never gonna forgive that bitch.”

“Listen, whatever Silk’s trying to make you do - you don’t have to -”

“No,” Vanessa cuts him off. “No, she’s right.  I - listen. You gotta tell me if this is stupid, I can’t tell sometimes. Around you.”  She fiddles with that silver ring on her thumb. It stands out when she’s wearing it (mostly because she always seems to be touching it, constantly checking to make sure it hasn’t slipped off.)

“I know that we ain’t really talked about what’s going to happen when we’re on the road. We ain’t really talked about any of it. Like if you’re at a club and there’s all this trade around and you’re thinking -”

“Wait - are you asking if we’re exclusive? Vanessa -”

“I ain’t asking. I’m telling you that - I am.” She twists that silver ring. “That’s how it is for me. So. Whatever you wanna do, we can figure it out, but I ain’t - like that. Shit, I gotta stop talking.” 

Brock’s knees are getting weak.  And the night has barely started - never a good sign.

“I’m not like that either.” He reaches out, puts his hand on her waist. “You don’t have to worry about that, okay? That’s not me.”

“Yeah, you say that but -” Vanessa twists that silver ring again. “This belonged to my abuelo. Did I already tell you that?”

“No.”  

Vanessa doesn’t talk about her family much (besides her mom) and Brock didn’t expect her to be carrying around heirlooms.

“He was nice. To me. Not everyone was, you know? And I thought – you gotta promise not to laugh at me.”

“I promise.”

“Such a fucking liar.” Despite the harshness of her words, Vanessa grins, shyly. “You know how you got trouble sometimes, talking ‘bout your shit. Or like asking me how I’m feeling, what I'm feeling ‘bout you.”

“Yeah...”

“I thought, like – maybe if I gave you this you wouldn’t have to ask. Even if we were in other countries and whatever. You’d just - know.”

With trembling hands, Vanessa takes the ring off her thumb, holds it out to Brock.

Brock doesn’t know what to say.

“I ain’t proposing, you don’t got to look so scared. I just –“ Vanessa swallows and looks away, blinking furiously. “Just - this is how I feel.”

Brock just stares at the ring in Vanjie’s palm. He’s forgotten how to make his hands work. Forgotten how to reach out, how to move at all.

"You - want a ring or some shit?” Vanjie asks, voice breaking.

Brock’s clumsy with feeling, so much he almost drops the ring as he takes it from Vanessa, fingers dragging gently over her skin  It's a thick silver ring with old-fashioned, leafy scrollwork around the edges. It’s heavy.  Brock didn’t expect that. 

“I’m going to start crying,” he stammers, getting ahead of the disaster while he can.

“Don’t you fucking dare or I’ll start, and this paint is flawless now.” 

Vanessa's hands are smaller than his, and the ring only fits on Brock's ring finger.  He puts it on his right hand because - he can't even go there right now. 

"Looks good on you," Vanjie says and then starts shaking. “You know I love you, right? You gotta know that, I’m all fucked up about it and -”

“Come here,” Brock manages, pulling her against him. Their heartbeats kick at each other, and Brock thinks of home, all the places that have been home and will be home, and how none of them mean more right now than this perfumed man wrapped in his arms.

After Vanjie stops shaking so much, and Brock’s eyes aren’t filled with mortifying tears, they kiss lightly - those backstage lounge kisses where neither of them could move for messing up the other’s lipstick, but they still couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

“Oooof,” Vanjie breathes out. “Okay. Silk is going to destroy me if I go back in there lookin’ all wrecked."

“You’re gorgeous.” Brock presses a final kiss to her cheekbone, and then one more to her eyebrow and then - “Shit, sorry.  You’ve got - to go back.” Sometimes when he looks at her, when she’s this close to him, he forgets all of that.

“We could just take off,” Vanessa says with some serious consideration. “Get our shit, hit the road.”

“Your girls would hunt you down.”

“True that.” Vanjie sighs.  She reaches out, laces their fingers together. The metal ring is already warm between their palms.

Brock smiles down at their hands, and then smiles at Vanjie, his whole heart in his throat and glowing like an ember.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go find out who wins.”

“I already know.” Vanjie holds his gaze, eyes shining and red lips pressed together. “It don’t matter.”

And for once in Brock’s life - it really doesn’t. 

 

( _Once upon a time, there was a boy who wanted to be a dancer._

_He started young and taught himself, no studios for him. He worked hard, tirelessly and ended up on stages around the country.  He met people who took care of him, had his heart broken, had his dreams ground down into ashes. He built walls made of glitter and gold brick, and he put them up around himself (but never beneath his skin. Never around his heart. His heart was soft, a velvety peach, and however he tried to keep it hidden, people always seemed to find it.  Sink their teeth in.)_

_He bruised too easily, but he was going places, anyone who met him knew as much.  Everyone who met him saw something that even he didn’t see in himself._

_He worked. He danced. He reached for success and had it smacked out of his grasp, fell to his knees and skinned them, thought it was over._

_But it was not over._

_It was just starting._

_“Never fear.  The Queen of the North is here.”_

_The boy (grown up now, with a different name) heard that voice, and looked up across the werkroom to see a woman dressed in red and black and gold._

_We match, was Vanjie’s first thought._

_Her second thought was stranger.  It almost felt like her ankle rolling underneath her, an old dance injury, even though her stiletto heels were planted firmly on the ground._

_Glitter and brick was shifting around her, cracks spreading through her armour, and her third thought was: ‘I’m in so much damn trouble.’_

_It started here, but it won’t end here.  (The thing about peaches is that there are stones inside them tough enough to break your teeth. It takes strength beyond measure to be soft_ **_._ ** _Say it. Say it again.)_

_Vanessa lifted her eyes to the Queen of the North, felt the phantom pain of inevitable injury rushing toward her._

_And she smiled.)_

* * *

**_Sometimes love doesn’t stay, but motherfuck, when it does_ **

**_it is worth every person that ever told you that you were not enough._ **

 

\- “I Break Like a Fever,” Desireé Dallagiacomo 

 

 


End file.
